Knowledge True and Useful: A Cultural History of Early Scholasticism 9781512824711

Citation preview

Knowledge True and Useful

THE M ­ IDDLE AGES SER IES Series Editors Ruth Mazo Karras Edward Peters, Founding Editor A complete list of books in the series is available from the publisher.

KNOWLEDGE TRUE AND USEFUL A Cultural History of Early Scholasticism

Frank Rexroth Translated by John Burden

Universit y of Pennsylvania Press Phil adelphia

​ riginally published as Fröhliche Scholastik: O Die Wissenschaftsrevolution des Mittelalters by C. H. Beck © 2018 En­glish translation copyright © 2023 University of Pennsylvania Press All rights reserved. Except for brief quotations used for purposes of review or scholarly citation, none of this book may be reproduced in any form by any means without written permission from the publisher. Published by University of Pennsylvania Press Philadelphia, Pennsylvania 19104-4112 www​.­upenn​.­edu​/­pennpress Printed in the United States of Amer­i­ca on acid-­free paper 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 Hardcover ISBN: 978-1-5128-2470-4 eBook ISBN: 978-1-5128-2471-1 A catalogue record for this book is available from the Library of Congress.

​For Ingo, Jana, Marcel, and Katharina, for Sebastian, Katharina Ulrike, and Jan-­Hendryk And for Michael Borgolte

CONTENTS

Note on the En­glish Translation

xi

Preface xiii

Chapter 1. Against the Clock A Productive Anachronism Scholasticism: Learned Knowledge Begins to Reflect on Itself

1 1 10

Chapter 2. Schools of Loyalty: Teaching and Learning in the Early ­Middle Ages 18 Studying to Be a Good Christian? Early Medieval Schools 18 Obliged to Love: The Norms Guiding Teacher-­Student Interactions 25 Social Groups and Intimacy 33 Chapter 3. Groups of Enthusiasts: School as a Utopian Place in the Era of Church Reform A Third Way: The F ­ ree Schools Living in Groups: Personal Needs and Collective Solutions

43 43 56

Chapter 4. The Re­nais­sance of Scientific Thought and Knowledge (c. 1070–1115) 71 Learned Knowledge Becomes Willful 71 Higher Knowledge: New Understanding and New Uses 76 A New Episteme in the Making 83

viii Contents

Chapter 5. Peter Abelard and the New Science Accelerating Tradition The New Knowledge and Its Modernized Requirements Sic et non: Domesticating Error and Defending Doubt

94 94 103 111

Chapter 6. Abelard’s School: A Social History of Truth Lifelong Schooling Truth, Probability, Boldness: Disputing ­Toward the Unreachable The New Scholarship ­Under Fire

117 117

Chapter 7. The Pa­ri­sian School Environment Other Minds, Other Horizons The Most Amazing City in the Scholastic Universe Eu­rope ­After 1150: Knowledge Becomes Usable and Interconnective

123 131 139 139 146 158

Chapter 8. Knowledge Creates and O ­ rders the Th ­ ings of the World 164 Learned and Unlearned: Scholarship and the Layman’s Understanding 164 School and Abbey: Reciprocal Accreditation 166 Scholasticism and Humanism: Two Discourses on Knowledge and Education 172 Chapter 9. Truth and Utility Experts of Utility: Law and Jurists Mutual Perceptions Shape the Habitus

186 186 195

Chapter 10. “We, the University”: The Scholars’ Guild Paris Just A ­ fter 1200 The University of Contrasts

203 203 208

Epilogue 222

List of Abbreviations

229

Notes 233

Contents ix

Bibliography 315 Index 365 Acknowl­edgments

373

NOTE ON THE EN­G LISH TR ANSLATION

Certain terms employed in the En­glish version of this book require some initial explanation. The gap between the German word “Wissenschaft” and the En­glish word “science” is especially difficult to bridge. The German terminology remains attached to the holistic idea of the Einheit der Wissenschaft (“oneness of all sciences”), which emphasizes the unity of rational criteria employed in all academic inquiry regardless of modern divisions into disciplines, clusters of disciplines, and categories based on empirical and hermeneutical methods. Since the following account is concerned with how the long twelfth c­ entury produced a new kind of scholarship that followed a common logic, the term “science” (including its word ­family) has been employed in the comprehensive sense of the German word “Wissenschaft.” The term “social group,” however, is used in the narrower sense of real-­ world associations. For example, it might describe specific students gathered around a specific master. Members of social groups tend to have a notion that their interactions are defined by elaborate rules, traditions, and differentiated roles. According to this definition, “medieval scholars” are not a social group, but the classes of Adam of Petit-­Pont or Accursius are.1 Readers might find the frequent occurrence of the words “willful” / “willfulness” irritating. Th ­ ese terms are an ad hoc stand-in for the concept of “Eigensinn” / “eigensinnig,” which is known in the Anglophone world mainly through Alf Lüdtke’s research on the modern history of everyday life but has never been terminologically established in En­glish.2 It refers to the insistence by historical actors (usually collectives, i.e., social groups) that they establish working definitions of common terms within their shared social space. In other words, they infuse words with special meaning within their groups. Masters and students did this with the words “true” and “false” by subjecting them to scientific inquiry guided by their own “willful” ideas. Another cluster of terms (“communication,” “social system,” “environment,” and “self-” / “external referentiality”) can be attributed to the profound

xii

Note to the English Edition

influence of social systems theory, especially as associated with Niklas Luhmann, on this study.3 Particularly impor­tant is the idea that social systems like “science,” “religion,” or “love” do not consist of ­people (or groups of ­people) but rather come into being through communication. ­People certainly participate in t­ hese systems, but they shape their contributions according to system-­specific expectations. Scholastic theologians, believers, and lovers each act according to certain rules, and they expect the same from o ­ thers within the system. Social systems arise through sustained communication and thus are distinct from their environment (from every­t hing not part of the system). The following chapters w ­ ill focus especially on how exchange worked between systems and across bound­aries (i.e., between truth-­oriented scientific communication and student-­teacher love based on fidelity).

PR EFACE

I was well into the groundwork of this book when it occurred to me that I had been dealing with its main theme, academic willfulness and its social roots, for some time already.1 When I enrolled at the University of Freiburg in 1980, every­thing was totally new to me—my ­family knew ­little of academia and higher education. Why was I assigned to the “Faculty of Philosophy” when I wanted to study German and history? What, I wondered, was a “Historical Seminar,” an “institute,” or a kind of gathering with an imposing name: “Lehrveranstaltung”? Obviously, not all professors ­were the same. Lecturers differed in rank as well as in appearance. ­Those in what seemed to be a lower rung of the hierarchy wore parkas and long beards, and their courses progressed in cycles through the volumes of Marx’s Das Kapital. ­Others wore suits and ties with their hair cleanly parted. W ­ ere they clerics in disguise? A ­ fter all, they w ­ ere called Ordinarii (tenured professors), which sounded like a title given to ecclesiastical dignitaries. Whereas my high school principal had obstinately insisted that it made no difference w ­ hether one learned history from Mr. Vain or Ms. Absence, it became obvious that the opposite was true h ­ ere: we w ­ ere advised to take note of our teachers’ mannerisms, areas of focus, and inclinations, and to set out our course schedules based on ­whether they seemed to “speak” to us or not. Like other novices from nonacademic families, I viewed higher education with both fascination and a certain reserve. My transition was made easier when I learned to think of my new existence as a par­tic­u­lar way of life rather than as an act of knowledge acquisition. I got to know seminars, libraries, and pre­sen­ta­t ions, but also eve­nings out at cinemas, theaters, and concerts, not to mention discussions of readings over drinks at the pub. Thus fortified, I could engage the strange world of academia on my own terms and slowly begin to acclimate to it.

xiv Preface

When I learned years l­ ater of the much-­vaunted “anthropological perspective,” I immediately recognized it. I had already begun to notice that certain fields cultivated their own unique character, or at least attracted certain kinds of characters. Sitting in the campus café, one learned to reliably associate students with certain disciplines based solely on their appearance. Female sociologists usually wore jeans and pullovers while law students usually wore high-­collared blouses and heirloom-­style necklaces. The historians reflected something of the dignified pauper: the down-­to-­earth, do-­it-­yourself type in a corduroy jacket—­not the kind who went to demonstrations, but the kind who at least had some opinion of them. They tended to speak with more confidence about their f­ uture c­ areers than did most other humanities scholars. I soon became determined to get to know better the topic Michael Borgolte introduced to me in my first seminar—­research. A wonderfully wasteful economy followed in which as much time as pos­si­ble was invested in what seemed most in­ter­est­ing, and money meant for food was spent instead on books. The clearer my research ideas became, the further I drifted from what I took to be a middle-­class lifestyle. Outwardly speaking, I drew so close to the group of sloppy dressers that I was slightly ashamed when the day fi­nally came that I took up my doctoral stipend and wore a suit jacket to work for the first time. I was now a state-­approved researcher ­after all, and I needed a place for my felt-­tipped pens and card cata­log slips. The next few years w ­ ere not without their t­ rials and tribulations. Uncertainty about what would come next weighed heavi­ly on me following my doctoral exams, my dissertation defense, and especially my habilitation. A ­ fter stays in London, Berlin, and Bielefeld, landing in Göttingen brought its own irritations. Unlike in my ­earlier locations, the research mentality ­t here was not r­ eally in competition with the middle-­class spirit: academic endeavor was not seen as incompatible with a middle-­class lifestyle, but rather an enhanced form of it. The challenges that eventually grew into something truly alarming, and that placed this book on its course, came from a dif­fer­ent direction. I first began to notice them around 2005 when my alma mater and other educational institutions began to place more and more emphasis on good vibes, positive thinking, and “corporate identity.” This mentality gave rise to gigantic competitive initiatives that treated academic fields like trademarks, prolific minds like golden geese and research topics like export products. Competitive universities began to adopt their own “corporate colors,” their own

Preface xv

strategically designed websites and letterheads, and even their own dubious mottos. Repercussions followed. My colleagues began to sport ties and scarves with their college log­os on special occasions, and university research magazines, which u ­ ntil then had been s­ imple news bulletins, turned into showcases of their finest offerings. When I thought about t­ hese tendencies in terms of the broader po­liti­cal climate and the direction of its winds, I could not help but see a certain logic. Ever since Roman Herzog’s German presidency in the 1990s, ­t here had been much talk of the need for major educational endeavors encompassing all walks of society. According to Herzog’s successor, Horst Köhler, in his 2004 inaugural address, Germany was “too far away from becoming a knowledge society” and needed, therefore, to become a “land of ideas.” Naturally, much pressure was put on the universities: curiosity and experimental vigor came into high demand along with courage, creativity, and an appetite for innovation. While the 2008 financial crisis brought pure dread to other places, ­those of us at German universities felt relatively secure in our business. A ­ fter all, society needed colleges, and even though they had taken their fair share of abuse in the past, they had a reputation for administering exactly the kind of medicine needed at the time—­k nowledge. The universities returned the ­favor by signaling to society that it needed to imitate the vibrancy, flexibility, and optimism about the f­ uture that could be found in higher education. ­Here the doubts began to set in. Did the skepticism and irreverence of my happy years in Freiburg no longer play a vital role in intellectual inquiry? Why was no one talking about t­ hese qualities? ­After all, the everyday practice of research was still centered on engaging critically with perceived truths and with the results, methods, and theories of ­t hose who came before. The ­whole point of having beginners tediously study manuals and textbooks was for them to eventually acquire the ability to ask new questions and pursue further research using new premises and perspectives. Initiating novices into the intellectual communities of their respective disciplines still involved imparting in them an attitude of doubt and dissent. This socialization pro­cess, if executed successfully, was already supposed to lead to a three-­dimensional approach to knowledge, one which emphasized expansion, systematization, and reflexivity all at once. The goal was for them to constantly question what they had learned along with its under­lying premises. The job of an academic is to doubt and to frame questions. Only two generations ago, Germans could joke that a professor was “a person of differing opinion.”2 How could this idea exist alongside the academic attitude of

xvi Preface

overbearing positivity? Should not the university promote willfulness? Should not a scholar act more like a skeptic than a crowd-­pleaser? A final point about social science past and pre­sent: in order to make claims about ­people, social groups, and socie­ties, the field maintains the helpful illusion that it is not bound by the complex structures and pro­cesses that form the object of its study.3 This illusion is maintained, in turn, by theorizing about the position of the researcher relative to the researched. We hear of “direct” and “indirect” observation, of “participatory” observation, and of “thick” participation.4 We also hear of the gap between the social “pressure to act” and discourses “purged of action” on behalf of the observing researcher.5 Assuming that such distinctions are meaningful and necessary, should academia r­ eally identify so closely with the outside world and with the socially acceptable values of the day? Might not the con­temporary academic zeitgeist interfere with the critical aptitude of the discipline? Th ­ ese questions are worth considering. But where exactly? The frame of inquiry of the following chapters ­will no doubt surprise the reader. Focusing on the reemergence of academia in “Latin” Eu­rope, we ­will treat certain pro­cesses that began in the ­middle of the eleventh ­century and became identifiable by the 1070s. We ­w ill follow them up to just ­after 1200, when they resulted in a more or less stable form of academic organ­ization at Eu­rope’s earliest universities. This book does not attempt to pre­sent a comprehensive history of early academia, only to outline the historical context that led to the emergence of a distinctive scholarly habitus. To this end, it traces several thought patterns—­including their backgrounds and social consequences—­t hat enabled academic inquiry. It is the pre­sent author’s conviction that the academic culture described so far, one that is firmly embedded in society, came into being at a certain time and for certain reasons. The author is not so naive as to believe that it is pos­si­ble to see through ­t hese earliest academics some pure form of science unspoiled by outside influences. Nor does he seek through the mirror of the long-­distant past to reveal to his contemporaries a better form of academia and to convert them to it. This book makes no g­ reat claim of continuity (“whoever wishes to understand the origins of the pre­sent must take interest in the M ­ iddle Ages”) or assumption of alterity (“dear reader, let us tell you of a distant, better world, and you may draw your own conclusions from it”). Instead, it trusts that historians w ­ ill be able to grasp something of value from anachronism—­from the controlled application of pre­sent concepts, questions, and prob­lems to dis-

Preface xvii

tant times, and from the tentative transfer of past ideas and structures into the pre­sent.6 The past that is illuminated in this way can be assigned a rationale even if historical witnesses did not recognize it themselves. It also allows ­t hose in the pre­sent to obtain better information about the past; if not of precise details, then of the realms of possibility that constrained it. It can be rewarding, the French classical scholar Nicole Loraux has argued, to travel back from the pre­sent to the past with common, everyday questions in mind. How much more exciting should it be, then, for ­t hose weighed down by the prob­lems of the past to fi­nally return to the pre­sent and find themselves able to see it from a new and dif­fer­ent perspective.7

CHAPTER 1

Against the Clock A Productive Anachronism The following account lays out the thesis that a form of knowledge that can meaningfully be described as scientific emerged in “Latin” western Eu­rope in the de­cades following the 1070s. This knowledge was both a product of social change and an engine of it, and the effects of ­t hese changes reached far beyond the horizon of the scholars who practiced it. This account is also based on the idea that, at this early but decisive point in Eu­ro­pean history, the forms and contents of this knowledge, as well as the pro­cesses that produced it, depended on certain patterns of community formation. By examining the logic and dynamics of ­t hese social developments, we ­will see that scientific insight came to be socially construed and tied up with specific forms of community formation many centuries before the appearance of the first laboratories.1 This kind of knowledge was already pre­sent when the first universities appeared in Eu­rope around 1200. So expansive and malleable was it, and so inclined to link up with other forms of knowledge, that when the higher schools came to embody it, they also encompassed it and restricted it. The following account w ­ ill span the e­ arlier phase of unrestricted “merry” scholasticism between about 1070 and 1250. Although university structures hemmed in the scholastic spirit, they also added something of value: the long-­ term perpetuation of scientific knowledge. Past Explanations: Heroic Master Narratives . . . Is Western science a product of the ­Middle Ages? Most seasoned historians would prefer to place its origins in the “­saddle period” (Reinhart Koselleck) on the threshold of modernity (c. 1760–1840).2 ­Others might venture further back to the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, the era of the widely known

2 Chapter 1

“Scientific Revolution,” whose heroic milestones included Copernicus’s De revolutionibus orbium coelestium (1543) and Newton’s Principia mathematica (1687).3 This latter account has often been propounded in the past, especially in support of a narrative that the origins of Western rationality resulted from new mathematical engagement with nature, from the introduction of experimentation as a method of analy­sis, or from renewed theorizing about the state. Within the broader narrative, each of t­ hese f­ actors has been identified as a root cause for the emergence of modernity and the “rise of the West.” 4 As Alexandre Koyré put it: “I have been forced to recognize, as many o ­ thers have before me, that during this period h ­ uman, or at least Eu­ro­pean, minds underwent a deep revolution which changed the very framework and pattern of our thinking and of which modern science and modern philosophy are, at the same time, the root and the fruit.” Herbert Butterfield, who had curiously enough made a name for himself as a critic of one-­dimensional pro­ gress narratives, nevertheless saw in this scientific revolution “the real origin both of the modern world and of the modern mentality.”5 Since then, intellectual historians have become more cautious regarding the triumphalist character of this narrative. We are now more likely to describe the “Scientific Revolution” as a Eurocentric “ ‘myth of origins’—­a narrative by which we Western ‘moderns’ differentiate ourselves from ‘the rest’ ” (Mario Biagioli). Much new emphasis has been placed on the foreign and unmodern aspects of science and on learned practice during the early modern period.6 The master narrative of the “Scientific Revolution” experienced some resurgence around the turn of the last millennium as politicians began to promote the ideal of a “knowledge society.” To this end, Peter Burke published a book in the year 2000 titled A Social History of Knowledge, which dressed up the old master narrative with the con­temporary vocabulary and concepts of the sought-­a fter knowledge society.7 In 2004, Richard van Dülmen and Sina Rauschenbach covered similar ground in a collection of essays on early modern intellectual history with the subtitle “The Emergence of the Modern Knowledge Society.”8 Looking more closely, the essays in that volume argue for a transition between 1450 and 1580 that saw knowledge take on massive new importance in Eu­ro­pean socie­ties. As one author claimed, intellectual inquiry came to be characterized by a “creative aspiration . . . ​by and large foreign to medieval knowledge even in its most secular forms.” 9 Another contributor claimed as “undisputed” that “the Reformation era introduced an unpre­ce­dented drive ­toward secularization, and many areas of life ­were dragged inexorably into



Against the Clock 3

modernity through the growing dominance of reason over faith.”10 According to him, the era also saw a “transition from a late medieval clerical culture to an early modern lay culture.”11 From then on, according to the editors, knowledge was able “to intervene in and determine what happened in the world and in life.”12 Years ­earlier, one of the editors, Van Dülmen, had become known for his work on the dreadful punishment rituals of the early modern period and the antiquated punitive apparatuses of ancien régime princely states—in short, on the unmodern qualities of early modern culture.13 Compared to such dreary subjects, his more recent work feels like the cozy warmth of a fireplace. But was it r­ eally possible that t­ hese two worlds could have existed at the same time? Many p ­ eople first encountered this perspective on Eu­ro­pean “knowledge socie­ties” through the impactful philosophical groundwork of Jürgen Mittelstrass.14 According to him, it was only in early modern times, which he calls the “Leonardo World,” that the epistemic and technological nature of man—­ the abilities to acquire knowledge and to craft tools—­began to build on each other.15 Individual scientific innovations ­were not decisive ­here, but rather the “fundamental methodological re­orientation that brought together two traditions that had ­u ntil then existed apart: the academic world of the schools and the tradition of the workshops, science in the classical sense and technology in the classical sense.”16 If this narrative does not win out, it ­will be in part ­because it overemphasizes some ­t hings at the expense of ­others. By focusing only on learned heroes such as Bacon, Galileo, Descartes, and Newton, scholars like Mittelstrass obscure the fact that the everyday academic life and traditions of the era w ­ ere far more diverse and colorful—in short: more “medieval”—­t han they have led us to believe. We should know by now to be wary of such heroic master narratives. In our case, we can use the controlled application of anachronism to help immunize ourselves against them. The basic idea is that the pre­sent and past should be brought together through discursive comparison rather than a unifying narrative; by assuming that the past ­will be foreign to us, we can use this distance to help identify which questions we should ask about the pre­sent. . . . ​Shifting Historical Bound­aries . . . Medievalists have not always been immune to the temptation of monumental narratives. But they also have fewer excuses available to them than did

4 Chapter 1

Koyré and Butterfield as they crafted the “Scientific Revolution.” The pattern of such pro­gress stories has been well known in the field since the era of Jacob Burckhardt and his magnum opus The Civilization of the Re­nais­sance in Italy (1860). From the appearance of Burckhardt’s book, the M ­ iddle Ages have served as a reservoir for every­t hing that seems unmodern, static, and backward.17 The newness of ­later ages has been accentuated again and again by “stigmatizing the old,” by leaving b ­ ehind the world in which it originated and setting aside its outdated certainties “as double entries, as it ­were, in the book-­keeping of scientific pro­gress.”18 Even ­earlier, Enlightenment polemic against the ancien régime found no more appropriate embodiment of the old than the ­Middle Ages: “ces tristes temps,” “ces siècles d’ignorance.”19 It was this tradition that Burkhardt took up and passed on to the twentieth ­century and that ­shaped the modern history of science, the culture of its leading personalities, and the social structure of its orga­nizational forms. For all of them, the M ­ iddle Ages seemed—­and indeed needed to be—­something ­else entirely. Even t­ hose who saw t­ hings differently tended to stick with the before-­and-­ after narrative of historical change. They simply moved the transition from the static and archaic past to the dynamic and modern pre­sent to within the ­Middle Ages rather than between the medieval and early modern periods. One early advocate of this perspective was the theoretical physicist and historian of science Pierre Duhem (1861–1916), who insisted that the decisive breakthrough in natu­ral science occurred in the early ­fourteenth ­century rather than the sixteenth c­ entury. He began in 1903 with a historical overview of modern, which is to say Cartesian, mechanics. He turned then to natu­ral philosophy at the end of the M ­ iddle Ages, identifying the origins of the modern scientific worldview with the work of John Buridan (d. a­ fter 1358) and his fellow Pa­ri­sian masters. “From the beginning of the ­fourteenth ­century,” he wrote in his late ten-­volume work, “the grandiose edifice of peripatetic [i.e., Aristotelian] physics was doomed. The Christian faith had undermined all of its essential princi­ples; empirical science—or at least astronomy, the only empirical science somewhat developed by then—­had rejected its conclusions. The ancient edifice was beginning to fade away, and modern natu­ral science was taking its place.”20 ­Here again, we see the familiar image of a heroic take-­off, of innovation striking out anew from the dead end of an older path. A generation ­later, the phi­los­o­pher Anneliese Maier (1905–71) moved in the same direction, albeit more cautiously. In 1939, she declared that her re-



Against the Clock 5

search would concentrate on “the preliminary and beginning stages of exact natu­ral science during the late ­Middle Ages.” Her 1949 monograph on Galileo’s pre­de­ces­sors in the f­ ourteenth c­ entury, along with her other work, brought new attention to the era of Buridan and Ockham, and to Pa­ri­sian scholars such as Peter John Olivi, Albert of Saxony, and Marsilius of Inghen.21 It is no coincidence that both Maier and Duhem ­were devout Catholics. Duhem sought tirelessly to build bridges between con­temporary science and Catholicism while Maier, born to a German-­Protestant professorial dynasty, converted to Catholicism in 1943. Both numbered among ­those Catholic scientists who, in the tradition of Pope Leo XIII and his encyclical Aeterni patris (1879), sought to challenge negative ste­reo­t ypes of the ­Middle Ages. Contradicting the current liberal-­Protestant mainstream opinion, they emphasized the forward-­thinking ele­ments of orthodox medieval intellectualism.22 Close in substance but distant in methodology to our proj­ect is the famous book of Charles Homer Haskins (1870–1937), another medievalist who shifted historical bound­aries. A professor at Harvard University since 1902, Haskins sought, like us, to bring the academia of his day into dialogue with the scholastic era. Like Duhem and Maier, he argued passionately that the essence of modernity can be found in the M ­ iddle Ages. He also endorsed Burckhardt’s vision of the Re­nais­sance but challenged its dating. For Burckhardt, it was the advent of Italian humanism in the ­fourteenth ­century that removed the “faith, illusion, and childish prepossession” of medieval culture that had sat like a veil before the eyes of man.23 Haskins identified t­hese developments more with the twelfth ­century, the time frame covered in the current book.24 Haskins judged the era according to clear standards. For him, civilizational pro­gress or backwardness in any era could be mea­sured according to con­temporary interest in classical lit­er­a­ture. Major topics of The Re­nais­sance of the Twelfth C ­ entury include the reception of ancient Latin lit­er­a­ture, the recovery of Roman law, the sophisticated analytical techniques developed at the new schools, and the astonishing creativity in the spheres of poetry and art. For Haskins, what was worth praising and cherishing as signs of cultivation and pro­gress was what could also make an impression on his departmental rivals working on Re­nais­sance history.25 The ­whole work, and not just the central fourth chapter, “The Revival of the Latin Classics,” is written in a refined, even aristocratic, register. Haskins celebrated this dynamic era so engrossed by lit­er­a­ture, but he also ignored

6 Chapter 1

much that did not fit his picture. Since ecclesiastical pro­gress would have disrupted his vision of a new age, his ode to the rediscovery of Roman law makes no mention of canon law. In the same way, his preference for secular poetry leaves no room for religious verse. Wandering scholars are treated as leading Re­nais­sance figures while the monks of the new Carthusian and Cistercian o ­ rders are cast as conservative forces trying to preserve the outdated educational ideals of Benedictine monasticism. Only on the margins does Haskins acknowledge church reform, new devotional practices, and the growing importance of vernacular poetry in French, En­glish, and German. Grammar and rhe­toric lessons are described with affection, but no attention is given to logic, which is treated instead as a source of contamination: in addition to spoiling students’ Latin with standardized language, the arduous pro­cess of learning it distracted them from the study of grammar and poetry.26 Some have attributed the imbalances in Haskins’s depiction to a desire to chart out the prehistory of a bourgeois educational ideal.27 Regardless, his metanarrative of a “twelfth-­century Re­nais­sance” has had remarkable and lasting impact on the field, enabling the more balanced accounts of the ­later twentieth c­ entury that helped to inspire the following chapters. Chapter 8, in par­tic­u­lar, w ­ ill attempt to show that many ele­ments of the so-­called Re­ nais­sance can be interpreted more productively from the perspective of modern historical discourse analy­sis. . . . ​Instructive Parables Setting aside such temporal bound­a ries, two French medievalists, both impor­tant intellectuals, also drew connections between the academic worlds of the ­Middle Ages and the pre­sent. Their approaches ­were more playful, and prob­ably for that reason also exceptionally innovative. The first was Jacques Le Goff, whose early work Les Intellectuels au Moyen Âge (1957) has under­ gone numerous reprints. The second is the phi­los­o­pher Alain De Libera, who contributed a postmodern reflection on the medieval practice of thinking in Penser au Moyen Âge (1991).28 Like the pre­sent book, Le Goff’s epoch-­making work relies on a productive anachronism, in his case by setting out in search of medieval “intellectuals,” which for him meant a par­tic­u­lar kind of figure characteristic of mid-­twentieth-­century French media and politics. Since the 1890s, the French public had been polarized over the case of the convicted Captain Dreyfus and subsequent debates about the roles of Jews and intellectuels in the public sphere. Through medieval intellectuals, Le Goff crafted



Against the Clock 7

a narrative intended to provoke readers to reflect on the pre­sent. To understand it, one must read it as a parable of the culture of the late 1950s; of m ­ usic, art, and philosophy in the turbulent times just before the student revolts of the 1960s. Les Intellectuels au Moyen Âge reflected the era’s rapid social change ­every bit as much as Boris Vian’s chanson “Le Déserteur,” the melancholic films of Louis Malle, or the playful, ironic features of Jacques Tati. Le Goff’s work should be placed on the bookshelf right next to the philosophical sketches of Jean-­Paul Sartre that emerged in the exact same context. Le Goff presented his book as an instructive meta­phor for how his society assigned roles to intellectuals. At the heart of his story are the social mechanisms that have inspired intellectuals to g­ reat feats of the mind, but also corrupted them, turning them from critics of society into its very pillars. This idea of an “organic” process he owed to the Italian Marxist Antonio Gramsci.29 First, Le Goff recounted the heroic beginnings of the twelfth-­century scholastic intellectuals—­mostly Parisian—­who rebelled against authority and clashed with the guardians of secular and spiritual order. A second phase saw the universities of the next ­century offer some institutional protection but also produce ambiguous results. “Inner contradictions” in their structure, he argues, spurred scholars to admirable productivity but also led to their exhaustion. The third and final phase, lasting from the late M ­ iddle Ages to the dawn of Re­nais­sance humanism, saw the intellectuals decline as they became rich and power­ful in the ser­vice of princes and tyrants, and their revolutionary impulses faded away. “For centuries,” Le Goff wrote in reference to the lavishly paid late medieval jurists, “­t here was no longer an intellectual worker in the Latin West.”30 He left it to his readers to determine if the long slumber of that time—­and of the pre­sent day—­had indeed ended. It was also left to them to ponder w ­ hether or not the modern masterminds of a better and more just world would prove any better at resisting the corruption of titles, income, and influence than their medieval pre­de­ces­sors. Le Goff did not draw parallels between this bygone epoch and the twentieth c­ entury as a mere distancing effect. On the contrary, he was truly convinced that the historical meta­phor he used was accurate. He believed that the spirit of intellectual optimism he found in the Quar­t ier Latin in Peter Abelard’s era was the very same one that animated the Left Bank in his own day. His book, which supposedly treated all of Eu­rope, was essentially a cele­ bration of high medieval Pa­ri­sian scholars. Born as it was out of a thirty-­ three-­year-­old historian’s exuberance for historical narrative, it seemed young, fresh, and left wing. He set the stage by playfully mixing biblical

8 Chapter 1

mythography with a dash of materialism. “In the beginning,” he wrote, “­were the towns.”31 The mainstream “progressive” social historians of Le Goff’s Europe—­including the French g­ reats—­generally avoided historical narrative (historia ad narrandum), calling instead for analy­sis and discourse. Le Goff cared ­little for their opinions: he freely recounted tales of medieval intellectuals even as he addressed present-­day urban culture, the bohemian lifestyle, and the power-­hungry elites of con­temporary French universities. We w ­ ill see in the third and fourth chapters of this book that he was wrong in at least one re­spect—­cities played less of a role “in the beginning” than did groups of hermits and recluses. While Le Goff’s book dealt with the greatness and tragic nature of modern intellectuals, Alain De Libera’s Penser au Moyen Âge (1991) provided a postmodern counterpart. This philosophical essay has attracted a good deal of attention since its appearance, but it never became a true best seller like Le Goff’s racy narrative.32 Given the author’s philosophical aversion to naive linearity, this is not ­really surprising. De Libera preferred to circle around his subject: his chapters contain a clear chronological thread but can be read in any order. De Libera also focused on intellectuals, and more precisely on “the emergence of an intellectual ideal” through intrascholastic conflicts around 1300.33 By ideal, he meant the lifestyle that ancient and medieval authors associated with the philosophus. Driven by an irresistible ­will to comprehend the nature of ­t hings, the philosophus dedicated his ­whole life to knowledge and relinquished all other pursuits. This ideal could be pursued for a while at the schools and universities, but it required that one be willing at some point to leave b ­ ehind the business of higher education. For De Libera, this “de-­professionalization of philosophy” played a far more impor­tant role in the emergence of Eu­ro­pean intellectualism than did Le Goff’s professionalization pro­cesses. The decisive moment came around 1300, when the first thinkers began to recognize philosophizing as a way of life and left the universities to pursue it.34 Far from Le Goff’s bloated privy councilors in the ser­v ice of the French king, De Libera’s intellectuals w ­ ere the representatives of a free-­floating intelligent­sia (Karl Mannheim). They drew their importance not from consulting contracts and social roles but from philosophical practice and works explic­itly directed at an audience outside the universities. According to De Libera, the first intellectuals of this type w ­ ere Dante and Meister Eckhart.



Against the Clock 9

The former’s Convivio (The Banquet) was the “first truly genuine and ­great manifesto for medieval intellectuals.”35 De Libera’s essay is guided by a profound skepticism of institutions and by the question of w ­ hether the emergence of intellectualism was a purely Eu­ ro­pean product or the result of cultural contact between Latin Christendom and its neighbors, especially the Islamic world. While the possibility of outside influence seems obvious ­today in the context of globalization, it was not so clear a few de­cades ago. Historians of philosophy sometimes weighed in on the question. One view, mostly conservative and Catholic, tended to emphasize the unity of knowledge and the faithful mind. But another approach, one more concerned with the broader history of secular philosophy, proved more willing to acknowledge influences beyond the Christian and ancient traditions. A prominent representative of the first view was Wolfgang Kluxen, who underscored the intellectual in­de­pen­dence of Eu­rope and insisted that every­t hing necessary for the development of a “princi­ple of rationality” was already pre­sent in its native traditions.36 Quite differently, the second perspective maintained in the tradition of the Enlightenment that the transfer of ancient texts and genuine Arabic commentaries from the Islamic world played a decisive role in the scientific Re­nais­sance of the Latin West. De Libera falls into the second group. He was convinced that it was precisely this contact and exchange that enabled an intellectual way of life to develop around 1300. For him, the Muslim phi­los­o­phers of the dar al-­islam ­were the medieval heirs of Greek wisdom. But since they did not have universities, they developed a philosophical lifestyle in­de­pen­dent of institutions. Passed on to Latin Eu­rope, this lifestyle caught on in the time between the anti-­Averroist condemnations of 1277 and the judgment of the Avignonese court against Meister Eckhart in 1327. De Libera’s book is postmodern in the sense that it decenters the Western intellectual tradition, treating it as part of a global history of philosophy. Unlike many of his pre­de­ces­sors, including Le Goff, he credited the Arabic phi­los­o­phers with far more than just providing a repository for ancient Greek texts before they made their way to the schools of Latin Eu­rope.37 Other indications of postmodernism appear too, for example his focus on pro­cesses of deprofessionalization. He also emphasized the plurality of medieval concepts of academic inquiry without relying on the traditional trope of a ­battle between philosophical “schools.”38 According to him, a colorful variety of positions existed together: the “real history” of medieval logic

10 Chapter 1

is a “world of discourses, of ‘puzzles’ (sophismata) and ‘role-­playing games’ (obligationes).” From the modern perspective, what at first seems foreign about the ­Middle Ages becomes indispensable when more extensive knowledge of the period is gained. De Libera explains: “From it, we see that thoughts are not the product of individuals but are able to travel through them and survive intact as the dark outlines of a f­ uture life. We thus discover that we are not self-­made men ­shaped out of nothing but rather beneficiaries and debtors of a subjectless discourse. . . . ​To understand the history of thought as an anonymous story: that, in our opinion, is the main task of the medievalist.”39 Our fourth chapter ­will put this position to the test. Fi­nally, De Libera saw pre­sent and scholastic philosophy as connected insofar as both employed intense reflection on the ontological status of language and its symbolic characters—­that is, on their forms of conventionality. Working during the “linguistic turn,” a major trend in cultural studies, he saw basic compatibility between twentieth-­century linguistic analy­sis and the scholastic tradition.40 De Libera was not the only medievalist to make use of analytic philosophy, discourse theory, and poststructuralism. The first earned him allies in the English-­speaking world, and the second and third in France. He pointed out, along with ­others, that scholasticism was postmodern in its thought experiments, its contrafactual thinking, and its pondering of pos­si­ble worlds that God could have created. According to Marcia Colish, scholasticism is defined not by the sum of its contents but by “a set of intellectual methods whose use and development cut across other categories and informed all players in the game.” 41 Like postmodern philosophy, medieval thinking also called into question concepts of author and work. The seemingly anarchic texts produced by nameless glossators and commentators, as we ­will see, had no use for such labels. By studying t­ hese anonymous works of the two generations before Abelard, the “wikis” of our day begin to make more sense.

Scholasticism: Learned Knowledge Begins to Reflect on Itself Scholarly Willfulness We are fi­nally approaching our period of examination a­ fter progressing through the heroic master narrative of the “scientific revolution,” through Duhem’s and Maier’s searches for Galileo’s medieval forerunners, through Haskins’s retrospective humanistic utopia, through Le Goff’s ballad of the



Against the Clock 11

corrupting of the first intellectuals, and through De Libera’s liberation narrative of the emerging intellectual lifestyle. What makes the years between about 1050 and 1250 so attractive for our undertaking is that they form the first era since antiquity in which Eu­ro­pean science took on a self-­referential quality (the Islamic parts of Eu­rope ­were ahead in this regard).42 In other words, medieval science developed an internal dialogue that enabled it to define itself without constantly seeking outside approval from religion or sovereign, and to avoid wasting valuable energy communicating with ­these external agents. The primary purpose of this kind of science was to produce intellectual results, not to contribute to the common good, to full employment, to international competitiveness, or to the accuracy of the faith. The point h ­ ere is not that this science existed in­de­pen­dently of its external environment, like some ivory tower in the traditional sense. On the contrary, when science is or­ga­nized self-­referentially and understood as a social system, it is actually oriented quite strongly t­ oward the outside world, even if in some cases only for the sake of maintaining its own form and bound­ aries.43 Such a science must be able to sustain its own internal logic, to persist in its reliance on its own theories and methods, and to conceive of its questions and proj­ects as targeted at real intellectual prob­lems. Th ­ ese conditions allow it to set its own goals—to become “willful.” Use of the terms self-­or externally referential is not meant to sound judgmental. The point is not to praise or criticize certain forms of communication, but to shed light on how a small but industrious milieu of studious men rediscovered a self-­referential—­and therefore, willful—­attitude t­oward science during the second half of the eleventh ­century. This attitude was “rediscovered” in the sense that ideas about the lives and activities of the ancient phi­los­o­phers contributed significantly to the establishment of this new “scholastic” identity. The previous centuries had produced plenty of impressive intellectual accomplishments, including major advancements in the seven liberal arts (septem artes liberales) during the Carolingian era.44 But ­t hese efforts in the verbal and mathematical arts (the trivium and the quadrivium, as we ­will explore ­later) ­were motivated primarily by goals irrelevant to the state of knowledge. Their purpose was to help ­people attain salvation through better understanding of sacra scriptura, through quality liturgical per­for­ mance, and by correctly calculating the church holidays (computus). According to one monk from Arras during the eleventh ­century, e­ very letter, ­every line, and ­every point that he wrote down earned him forgiveness for one sin.45

12 Chapter 1

This way of thinking obviously did not simply dis­appear in the following ­century. In fact, it continued to dominate the intellectual life of the monasteries. But new schools gradually emerged where the study of letters, lines, and texts aimed at something new: at achieving a better understanding of the texts themselves and, by extension, of the “nature of ­t hings” and of truth itself. This movement was motivated primarily by a “­will to truth” that contributed to an entirely new discourse and was realized through academic inquiry ­free to define its own goals. This new fixation on the philosophical ideal of truth resulted in a decline in the trust hitherto placed in the consistency of the intellectual tradition. Regarding Christ’s statement that “I am the truth and the life” (John 14:6), the combative papal reformer Gregory VII (r. 1073–85) pointed out that “he did not say ‘I am the custom’ but ‘I am the truth.’ ” 46 This same line of argumentation was used by Peter Abelard, the most famous of the early scholastics, against overreliance on the intellectual tradition (consuetudo). Concerns had arisen at the schools that some beliefs w ­ ere accepted as true only b ­ ecause they w ­ ere backed by received teaching, and thus by tradition and custom. With this new doubt came also suspicion that the convictions of the older generations and of authorities in general ­were not entirely consistent. In scholastic circles, it became a joke that authorities had waxen noses that could be bent in any direction.47 But how could one reach the truth if not through the doctrine of teachers and the Church ­Fathers? The schools took a major step in a new direction by gradually setting aside the stipulations of the seven liberal arts, which—by definition—­were not self-­referential since they aimed at achieving external, “higher” purposes. In time, the arts ­were replaced by an idea of philosophy based on both the teaching of wisdom and a doctrine of proper conduct worthy of dedicating one’s life to. According to Helen Waddell, Peter Abelard was the first representative of this new ideal, which ultimately allowed one to be “a scholar for scholarship’s sake.” 48 As the arts faced down this new, competing idea of philosophy, one of their number, dialectic, emerged as a leading science and a fast lane on the quest for the truth. Through its highly technical language, dialectic offered a promising way to treat questions about real-­world t­ hings symbolically, by transposing them into language that seemed to enable scholars to reach ­v iable solutions. Before long, dialectical technique was being applied to other areas of knowledge, most spectacularly and controversially to questions of theology. This methodological transfer across the range of arts and sciences, as



Against the Clock 13

we w ­ ill see, had the unintended consequence of exposing ­these activities and methods to the critical and often resentful gaze of outsiders. Ideas about truth are, of course, thousands of years old. Our purpose is not to claim that Abelard and his contemporaries reinvented the wheel. Advancing from a dif­fer­ent ­angle, the following ­will describe how “truth,” in competition with other variables (above all “correctness” and “utility”), emerged as the dominant organ­izing scheme of scientific communication. By way of this, we w ­ ill compare and contrast this new kind of scientific communication with other forms of social interaction. We ­will see that the pro­ cesses that enabled and s­ haped it w ­ ere by no means slow and steady. In the time frame of this book, they picked up pace rapidly (Chapters 4–6), embedded the new science as a discourse in vari­ous social contexts (Chapter 7), and led to ­g reat confusion as the new discourse interacted with other con­ temporary discourses (Chapters 8–10). Scholasticism as the Culture of Schools ­ ese pro­cesses, which we have so far only briefly outlined and will discuss Th in greater detail ­later, have already been treated with ­great care by historians and scholars of philosophy such as John Marenbon, Yukio Iwakuma, and Constant Mews. Their works have shed a g­ reat deal of light on the emerging episteme of medieval philosophy. In ­doing so, they have also challenged major disciplinary currents, namely the older, dominant notion that the core purpose and nature of scholastic science was to harmonize faith and wisdom, to synthesize theology and philosophy within the framework of “Christian philosophy” (Étienne Gilson).49 In this context, scholasticism was praised for its reputed ability to integrate belief and intellect. This view ignores the fact that scholarly communication usually resulted in heated conflict even before the first g­ reat b ­ attles between the University of Paris and the young mendicant ­orders in the thirteenth ­century. Students of philosophy must resist the urge to treat the beginnings of self-­referential science in the long twelfth ­century as the mere back story to the l­ater ­grand designs of Albertus Magnus (d. 1280) or Thomas Aquinas (d. 1274). As impressive as their achievements w ­ ere, the scholars of the preceding c­ entury ­were far more than just their “forerunners.” The following outline owes much to the scholars who have managed to avoid t­ hese pitfalls, but it deviates from them insofar as it claims that the scholastic form (and, hence, scholasticism itself) must be understood as a

14 Chapter 1

social phenomenon emanating from social groups. The new science of the twelfth ­century w ­ ill still, of course, be viewed in part through its episteme. But we ­will be guided by the insight that how it or­ga­nized knowledge directly corresponded to and depended on its sociocultural forms. We ­will, therefore, take the main categories of the new science and subject them to the analy­sis of social history.50 “Sociocultural” refers ­here to the idea that the schools and their culture—­t heir knowledge, habits, and life paths—­were thoroughly interconnected with the social forms of interaction that also formed their institutional basis. To put it differently, along with the knowledge of the scholars, we w ­ ill convey as scholastic culture other broad and tangible aspects: the way they formed into and developed groups; how they operated within them; and their lifestyles, paths, and habits. In sum, we w ­ ill examine the culture that sustained the schools and, in turn, was sustained by them. Con­temporary advocates and critics alike ­were well aware that the scholastic milieu cultivated a par­tic­u­lar lifestyle as well as specialized knowledge. ­Those dedicated to it even ­adopted a specific worldview: they shared ideas about how the rest of society thought; about time, the rhythm of life, and aging; about their bodies and sexuality; about the value of the new relative to the old; and about the merits of authority, loyalty, and their self-­assigned obligations. Far from being mere accessories to the new episteme, ­t hese ele­ments actually constituted it. Outside critics, but also internal ones as well, leveled a wide range of objections against scholastic beliefs and practices. It is helpful ­here to distinguish between internal and external criticism. The former was driven by a desire for self-­improvement and self-­enlightenment, and according to Karen Gloy, it sought to strengthen the consensus regarding standards of rationality. From within, internal critics could draw productive attention to aberrations and abuses. Such criticism was more or less inevitable in a community so devoted to reason. Totally dif­fer­ent, in Gloy’s opinion, was the external criticism of ­t hose outside the milieu. Sharing no such standards of rationality, they aimed at a complete refutation of the enterprise.51 Scholars such as Stephen Ferruolo have identified many such critics from the monastic realm. But we should also keep our eye out for disingenuous defectors, for writers who tried to pass off external criticism as the logical consequence of serious internal criticism grown out of control. The goal of t­ hese critics was to make it seem as if the internal consensus was beginning to break down.52 Monks had described the monastery as a schola Christi since the time of Saint Benedict. But in general, they did not apply the adjectival derivation



Against the Clock 15

of schola or its substantive form scholasticus to themselves, using it instead for outside contexts that they neither belonged to nor wished to associate with.53 When monks wanted to suggest to readers that a controversy should be laid to rest, they might say (as did Godfrey of St.  Victor in this case): “However that may be, this question does not concern us very much, so we leave it to scholastic disputation” (scolasticis disputationibus relinquimus).54 Rupert of Deutz, one of the most learned monks of his day, insisted that an author who might disagree with him about the eucharist would be a “monk and yet a scholastic” (scholastico licet monacho). The paradox was intended as polemic against the new intellectuals who w ­ ere known to pride themselves too much on their own knowledge.55 The scolastici soon acquired a ste­reo­type based on their use of dialectic both as a tool of scientific inquiry and as their primary didactic method: to think and argue scolastice became synonymous with philosophice and dialectice. The term “scholasticism” was first applied to the entire era only in the eigh­teenth c­ entury, by Enlightenment thinkers who used it as a byword for intellectual backwardness. Rejecting this view, the l­ater Romantics repurposed the term as a positive spiritual link between past and pre­sent. While the Enlightenment phi­los­o­phers had ridiculed the scholastics for binding philosophy with theology and surrendering the former to pious obscurantism, the Romantics praised them for being untouched by the original sin of the Reformation and for the organic connection they forged between faith and knowledge.56 How have historians in general viewed this era? For researchers like Peter Classen and Sir Richard Southern, the early scholastic world held a very special charm. Much like with Le Goff, it likely had something to do with their own twentieth-­century academic sensitivities. Although Southern and Classen w ­ ere active long before the collegiate marketing campaigns of t­ oday, their universities ­were already noisy and administratively exhausting places not always conducive to serious research. The scholastic milieu of the twelfth ­century seemed especially in­ter­est­ing to them ­because—as Classen wrote— it was a time of “peculiar freedom” (einer eigenartigen Freiheit).57 By ending lay hegemony over the church, the Investiture Controversy and the Gregorian Reform had opened up many new realms of action and thought for the clerici. Only around 1200, during the time of Innocent III (r. 1198–1216), was the church able to begin implementing its own effective mechanisms of internal discipline. In the history of intellectual disciplining, the twelfth c­ entury seems like a libertarian no-­man’s-­land wedged between ­earlier and ­later phases of

16 Chapter 1

princely and papal oppression. What Classen expressed is what has always made the era so attractive to institutional skeptics and f­ ree thinkers. Researchers inclined to assign societal pro­gress to organ­izations, ­careers, tenured positions, and education, however, have focused more on the period ­after 1200 when the university began to r­ eally take shape. Scholastic schools can clearly be identified in this l­ater phase, which is almost impossible to construe as a time of “decline.” Only by following the story of the new schools up to the ­middle of the thirteenth ­century, when the internal structure of the university becomes fully clear and institutionalized, ­will it be pos­si­ble to comprehend how two relationships in par­tic­u­lar allowed the new science to acquire its character. The first of t­ hese relationships was between the new, largely self-­referential science and its external environment. In this context, it was impor­tant that science first acquire a suitable mode of organ­ization, which it eventually did through the emergence of the university. The other relationship that s­ haped science was internal and came into being by subdividing itself into distinct disciplines with their own respective spheres, axioms, and standards of truth. In this way, the new science acquired its own inner environment: while the disciplines did not add up neatly to an organic w ­ hole, they interacted and communicated with each other. They sharpened their identities against each other and competed over correct views, prestige, and status. The Western university that emerged in Eu­rope around 1200 is a child of medieval culture insofar as its form corresponded to a model typical of the ­Middle Ages: a guild or cooperative consisting of a sworn ­u nion (a coniuratio of academics and scholars) who chose their own rules and structure autonomously, and who elected their own magistrates (rectors or deans) autocephalously. Modern universities still largely follow the form that emerged from the amorphous academic landscapes of Paris and Bologna in the High ­Middle Ages. Most impor­tant ­were the faculties and departments, individual units that w ­ ere or­ga­nized as sworn u ­ nions themselves, which created and maintained their own regulations and governing bodies (above all the dean’s office), and which developed and determined their own curricula and forms of assessment. Th ­ ose who wished to join had to first pledge their adherence to the institutional rules through a pro­cess of matriculation. Still used to initiate modern students into college, matriculation once involved swearing an oath and entering one’s name into a book whose first folios contained a crucifix and the opening words of the four gospels. Even back then, pro­gress in



Against the Clock 17

academic dignity was indicated using the degrees universities assign t­ oday: bachelors’ degrees, masters’ degrees, and doctorates. The orga­nizational conservatism of academia is definitely a medieval product. But what about the division of subjects within the university? Did the scholastic era have anything that resembles the modern trend of academic specialization? Diachronic comparisons of this kind often rely on inaccurate repre­sen­ta­tions of scholasticism, evoking static and homogenous images that mask what was actually dynamic motion and significant diversity. Within the learned guilds of the universities, a social space of fascinating intellectual vigor certainly did emerge in which members of dif­fer­ent disciplines could engage in lively debates. In this way, as we w ­ ill see, they divided up knowledge into provinces similar to the modern “subject areas.” It w ­ ill not be easy to treat the origins of Eu­rope’s ideal of a self-­referential science without indulging in a bit of Butterfield’s heroization, Le Goff’s subtle politicization, or the naive anti-­institutionalism of ­t hose who glorify the ­century before the founding of the universities as a long-­lost idyllic world unfettered by the shackles of curricula, examinations, and internal hierarchies. This kind of anachronistic comparison, however, can be fruitful if we put some distance between ourselves and the events of the past. Luckily, at least one dimension of scientific thought has the potential to force us into productive anachronism, into thinking “against the clock.” This dimension is none other than academic willfulness, that luxury of science that enables it to refer primarily to itself and to cultivate its own logic.

CHAPTER 2

Schools of Loyalty Teaching and Learning in the Early ­Middle Ages Studying to Be a Good Christian? Early Medieval Schools Learning to Read Institutions of elementary and higher education had existed for many centuries by the time new intellectual ideas began to emerge in the twelfth ­century. When Chris­tian­ity appeared in the Roman Empire, it was initially persecuted and thus developed—at least up to the era of Constantine the ­Great (d. 337)—­both distinct from Roman culture and in close contact with it. Chris­tian­ity was especially influential b ­ ecause it radically enhanced the appreciation of work; that is to say the manual l­ abor of working p ­ eople and, by extension, their poverty and lack of education.1 It did not m ­ atter how poor one was or how difficult it was to earn a living since e­ very w ­ oman and e­ very man could be a model Christian if they ­were capable of faith. The teaching of the Sermon on the Mount, “blessed are they who are poor in spirit” (Matt. 5:3), meant that members of the Christian community, especially t­ hose lacking education, already possessed in the gift of faith all that was necessary to obtain salvation. In the culture of the pagan majority, education belonged to the sphere of leisure, of otium, a way of life that only wealthy f­ ree men w ­ ere able to engage in. U ­ nder the tenets of the new faith, however, the disciples of a s­ imple fisherman triumphed over the wisdom of the most famous pagan scholars—so the defenders of Chris­tian­ity truly believed.2 The credulus, the simpleminded man, became a respectable person; according to the new understanding, he was a believer. His credulitas, which for the pagan phi­los­o­phers was the opposite of wisdom, became a standard to attain. At the same time, Chris­tian­ity was a religion of the book. The new faith demanded knowledge of scripture and techniques of scriptural interpreta-



Schools of Loyalty 19

tion suited to the difficulties of biblical and patristic texts. Through sermons, all members of the Christian community ­were supposed to take part in the interpretation of scripture; according to Caesarius of Arles (d. 542), it was the sermon that allowed the uneducated to grasp complex ­matters in a ­simple and comprehensible form.3 But to reach the deeper layers of meaning in the Bible or in patristic lit­er­a­ture, one required ­great experience in dealing with Christian texts. Take, for example, the Song of Songs (Canticum Canticorum) in the Old Testament, which at first glance seems not to mention God at all. What religious message did it proclaim in coded form? Did it say something about the church? Did it hide a mystical sense? Or did this “most beautiful of all songs” actually deal with the Virgin Mary? Christian scholars, working in the tradition of Greek Stoic philosophy and Hellenistic Judaism, ­adopted and refined a form of scriptural interpretation that enabled them to recognize in t­ hese sensual wedding songs other deeply hidden and essential layers of meaning. The aim of Christian allegory was to strip back ­every layer of sense ­behind the literal meaning of the writing, to tease out the ecclesiological, spiritual, or Mariological content of the Song of Songs.4 Uncovering hidden scriptural meaning required blessing by the grace of the Holy Spirit. But this alone did not suffice for exegesis; to grasp even just the literal meaning required g­ reat sensitivity to the wording of the translated Latin Bible and its inherent difficulties.5 A ­great deal of knowledge was required to approach such demanding study, which made basic instruction in the pagan Roman educational canon—­especially the language subjects—­indispensable. It troubled the bishops of the Catholic Church when lay ­people and amateurs without training in exegesis and allegory attempted to expound the Christian tradition. For Jerome, understanding the Song of Songs “required the greatest maturity of perception and was the crowning achievement of biblical study for the perfecti.” 6 Practicing Christian hermeneutics was demanding, requiring both the education of expert exegetes as well as institutions that preserved the necessary skills over time. Reawakened interest in patristic texts, which began during the Carolingian era in the eighth and ninth centuries, also helped spark curiosity about the intellectual background of the authors, their education, the authors they referenced, and their reflections on language. In this way, non-­Christian authors such as Virgil, Cicero, Sallust, and Terence once again achieved prominence.7 Teaching and administering the schola ­were increasingly entrusted to the b ­ earers of office in the Christian communities, namely to clerics. At the same time, a dif­fer­ent culture of

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the school arose in the monasteries where p ­ eople retreated to in order to pray more effectively for their fellow man. Christian schools retained not just ancient topics and reference texts, but also the division of “higher” knowledge into “seven liberal arts” (septem artes liberales). Since late antiquity, this division, according to Ernst Robert Curtius, formed “the basic schema of the world of thought” across Latin Eu­rope.8 Of ­these seven elementary disciplines, some ­were linguistic (the three arts of the trivium included grammar, dialectic, and rhe­toric) and some mathematical (the four disciplines of the quadrivium included arithmetic, geometry, astronomy, and ­music). They ­were transmitted in their entirety in the writings of Martianus Capella, Cassiodorus, and Isidore of Seville and ­were taught in the early M ­ iddle Ages based on a l­imited body of standard works that ­were expanded or replaced only with ­great hesitance over the centuries.9 According to the program of the artes liberales, it was impor­tant not to remain fixated on any one of the individual subjects, but to work through them successively and to treat them as a practical body oriented ­toward proper engagement with letters and numbers. Few mastered the entire course of the seven arts, but every­one who took up even one of them knew that their comprehensive theory was designed around a progression from one discipline to the next. Expectations ­were especially low for the computational disciplines, which ­were mainly pursued by aficionados and enthusiasts. When the Reichenau monk Herman the Lame, one of the greatest scholars of medieval Eu­rope, spoke of knowledge and learning in the eleventh c­ entury, he meant primarily mathe­matics and the study of nature. However, ­because he neither oriented his work within a broader tradition nor tried to establish one himself, few contemporaries could truly understand his work.10 In regard to writing and speaking at least, the standard triad of approaches remained inherent to the “­free arts” during the early M ­ iddle Ages. ­Those who ventured so deep into grammar that they forgot to continue on with the other “trivial” subjects did something wrong. Residents of the Italian peninsula ­were thought to be especially susceptible to this trap. Compared to students elsewhere, grammar instruction for them was not r­ eally like studying a foreign language. Relying on their own native philology, they could bypass the usual grammatical pitfalls and focus more attention on the content of the text. One account tells of a man from Ravenna named Vilgard who lived in the second half of the tenth ­century and lost himself entirely in grammar, becoming boastful and narrow-­minded. Apparently, he became



Schools of Loyalty 21

too attached to the classical authors as he zealously worked through them in his exercises. When he had gone too far, demons in the form of the poets Virgil, Horace, and Juvenal visited him at night and enticed him to advertise his worship of the poets as a religion.11 Vilgard, other­wise unknown, is remembered ­today as one of the very first heretics in western Eu­rope to be burnt at the stake as a result of their teaching.12 The requirements of the new faith meant that the liberal arts, once embedded in the Christian sphere, served no longer as indicators of social status but as dimensions of social function. Treating education as a social system, we can say that the artes ­were externally referential since their purpose lay beyond their own sphere. Originally pagan, they nevertheless “enabled salvation,” w ­ ere “goal-­oriented, subject to a purpose,” and “strengthened the faith and led to God.” According to Jerome, rhe­toric aided in the exegesis of holy scripture, mathe­matics helped to decode biblical numerology, and ­music supported liturgical practice.13 One learned the arts in order to achieve an external purpose. According to the princi­ple of correctness (norma rectitudinis), they furthered the understanding of holy texts, and even more so the ability to perform tasks in the real world. Clerics had to master preaching and other pastoral duties while monks in their cloistered seclusion had to do the same for prayer and the liturgy.14 Study enabled one to copy and transmit the Bible and patristic texts without error, to correctly implement the Christian liturgy, and to acquire the textual understanding and ability to conduct the complex calculations of feast days—­especially Easter—in the church calendar.15 ­Those who labored over the artes liberales and ­were eventually able to grasp, understand, or transcribe with adequate skill w ­ ere spiritually rewarded for their strug­gle and effort. They could even help ­others achieve salvation. This last dimension was critical for monks, many of whom laid penances on themselves for their misdeeds. It was also their special duty to make vicarious intercession for the sins of ­others, which lent their devotional practices a genuinely social dimension. Ardent prayer and per­sis­tent effort ­were required for this, but it was also impor­tant to strive ­toward this goal with the right words and in the accepted form. The accuracy of their prayer was supposed to correspond closely to the purity of their monastic lifestyle. The studious efforts of monastic novices must, therefore, be understood in this social context that bound monks to lay p ­ eople. In the Latinate, “western” part of the larger Christian sphere, acquiring Latin literacy and competence in biblical and patristic exegesis brought

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monks and clerics into sustained contact with the pagan lit­er­a­ture of ancient schools. Although one might have expected that the ancient curriculum would have been replaced by a Christian one, it was not. During the ­Middle Ages, many texts came to be utilized that on the surface seemed to be only slightly Christian or not so at all. The opinions of the religious regarding pagan philosophy and poetry—­entertaining yet morally dangerous—­were complicated. Bishop Ambrose of Milan (d. 397) “knows Greek philosophy but opposes it” (Ernst Robert Curtius).16 For Saint Jerome (d. 420), the translator of the Bible, whose importance rested squarely on philological ability, the situation was dif­fer­ent: he effortlessly cited Lucretius and Persius when commenting on the prophet Jeremiah. When confronted on his affinity for pagan poets, he recalled that King Solomon had once recommended the study of wise men and that Paul had cited Epimenides, Menander, and Aratus in his letters.17 That did not stop him, however, from emphasizing in an intellectual quarrel that it was not the duty of monks to lecture, but rather to mourn and grieve for themselves and for the world.18 ­There always remained for students some basic tension—­but also a source of creative potential—­between their curriculum and the ethical foundations of Chris­tian­ity. Monastic and Cathedral Schools Sketching the situation in the formative phase of scholastic study requires one to treat the social forms of teaching together with the thought patterns and ethical values of the scholae. Three types of schools can be distinguished ­here: the teaching of f­ ree—­and sometimes itinerant—­individual masters, monastic schools, and cathedral schools. The itinerant masters, who had to barter as entrepreneurs to secure a living from their teaching, ­w ill be treated at length in the third chapter. The second group, the monastic schools, could look back on a long and storied tradition. During the tenth and eleventh centuries, monastic reforms had even sought to limit the importance of scriptoria in abbeys that exalted the intellectual tradition of their scholae. ­These schools ­were well institutionalized, could recruit new teachers from their own ranks, and therefore did not depend as strongly on individual teachers as did the private schools. As such, they became the most impor­tant vehicles for transmitting biblical and patristic, but also ancient pagan texts.19 But wherever monks passed on higher knowledge, they remained conscious of their



Schools of Loyalty 23

impact beyond the walls of the cloister. Their primary task, ­a fter all, was grieving for the wickedness of the world and praying for their fellow man, not cultivating the rules of Latin syntax and rearranging the logical ele­ments of an argument. The contributions of early medieval monasteries, especially the Benedictine abbeys, to the transmission and enrichment of literary culture cannot be overstated. It is a ­great error to view them in the Enlightenment tradition only as ware­houses of ancient pagan lit­er­a­ture and as repositories of valuable texts waiting to be appreciated again by Re­nais­sance humanists at the end of the M ­ iddle Ages.20 On the contrary, monastic communities engaged with their texts with such intensity that they produced and innovated even in areas one might not expect. Much of what came to constitute the learned sphere of Eu­rope is owed to monks. They immersed themselves in grammar, dialectic, and rhe­toric, which flourished during the Carolingian period, and revived ancient forms of cultivating friendship and intimacy in the pro­cess. Not only did they treat the holy texts; they brought forth a flowering of Western epistolary culture and new reflection on friendship and love, loyalty and truth, érōs and intellect. We should speak ­here not only of the curriculum and techniques of monks, but also of certain practices that influenced the outside scholarly world. It was Benedictine monks who normalized the habits of pious eremitism and aversion ­toward mainstream society that the agents of scholasticism ­later ­adopted. Scholars learned from the monks how to forego interaction with society in an appropriate way, which proved especially valuable in the twelfth ­century as highly cultivated forms of social interaction such as virtuous chatter, worldly urbanitas, and courtly talk (hoverede) became the norm.21 Monasticism taught them how to deal with the world from a distance, how to develop an ingrained mistrust t­ oward the communis opinio of the lay world and its barometers of success and status.22 Bound up in all this w ­ ere the meditative practices of textual engagement perfected by monks, which allowed them to constantly shift their perspective between what they ­were reading and their own personal experience.23 This method was not the only scholarly way to engage with texts, but it was an impor­tant one. The flight from the world so characteristic of monasticism was especially influential inside the abbey schools. Th ­ ere monks objected not only to the hustle and bustle of worldly ­people, but also their transitory values and notions, and their lack of intellectual depth. In t­ hese schools, a special form of

24 Chapter 2

asceticism emerged that, as Mia Münster-­Swendsen has shown, came to be regarded as characteristic of scholae in general: memorizing, reciting, painstaking writing and copying, and tedious reading by weak candlelight. Th ­ ese activities helped establish the virtuosity of the monastic magistri, stimulating them to perfect not so much their teaching material, but rather themselves, and thus to become the supreme role model.24 And yet, in the monastic realm, ­t hese habits paid ser­v ice to the notion that one ultimately pursued the studia litterarum to further the spiritual salvation of mankind. The practices of the last type of school, the cathedral school, w ­ ere much more strongly oriented t­ oward earthly interests and w ­ ere therefore also externally referential.25 The framework of lessons held in episcopal headquarters clearly aimed at the production of worldly texts and the competence to correctly formulate charters and letters, but it would go too far to describe such schools only as elite training centers for chancellery personnel and competent functionaries of early medieval rulers.26 The arts of the trivium formed the base curriculum, and we can safely assume that the students of cathedral schools ­were just as enthusiastic about the material as ­were monks. The church reforms of the eleventh ­century gave them a further boost. Pope Gregory VII ordered bishops to make sure that the seven arts ­were taught in their churches, and ­later Pope Alexander III decreed at the Third Lateran Council (1179) that e­ very cathedral must possess a school and a teacher who was obligated to educate poor students at no cost. Although not all places w ­ ere attractive for the more advanced studies, it was known already in the eleventh c­ entury that e­ very cathedral school worth attending for this purpose lay west of the Rhine: in Orléans, Chartres, Liège, and Tournai, and—­with ever greater dominance—in Paris.27 The schola was far more than a ­simple partnership of con­ve­nience between student and teacher. All attendees committed themselves to a way of life that required focusing all their efforts on interacting with p ­ eople similarly disposed ­toward higher knowledge. The “schoolmen” (scholastici) of which contemporaries spoke w ­ ere learned and educated; according to a lexicographer from the mid-­eleventh c­ entury, synonyms included eruditus, literatus, and sapiens. Being a schoolman meant maintaining certain pretensions of learning and gentility. The humility required by monks excluded them from the scholastici. Since they believed that a monastery was a ­simple schola Christi, they could not receive an epithet long known as an honorific title.28



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Obliged to Love: The Norms Guiding Teacher-­Student Interactions Getting It Right: How Knowledge Passed from Teacher to Student By necessity, the previous section has presented only a vague sketch of large topics. A skillful reader ­will notice obvious gaps and call for clarifications. In the process, however, we have arrived at a clearer perspective, which ­will allow us to achieve insight into the social interactions between teachers and students as they strug­gled together to understand texts and their meaning. The knowledge that students needed for ­future monastic or clerical ­careers was passed on in the early medieval cathedral and monastic schools through the educational framework of a “total” institution.29 It was “total” in the sense that expectations of be­hav­ior for teachers and students applied not just to lessons but permeated all areas of monastic life. In the monasteries, teacher and student ­were not just classroom roles, but also templates for two distinct identities. Both in monastic as well as cathedral schools, students and teachers w ­ ere thoroughly and perpetually bound to each other. The monastic teacher, as custos, was the most impor­tant caregiver for the students and the primary authority for the inculcation of expected norms. Students had to sit correctly (and in the correct part of the choir), move about correctly (exactly a rod’s length in front of the master), stand correctly (with feet parallel and knees not spread too far), bow appropriately, dress appropriately (which required becoming familiar with ecclesiastical garments and their function), and eat and drink appropriately.30 The teachers lived “practically in a state of symbiosis with the ­children,” monitoring them day and night “as a shadow” even “in regard to the most intimate ­matters of bodily care.” Their eyes “had to be everywhere.”31 Such contact obviously harbored danger. In Fleury in the second de­cade of the eleventh c­ entury, this care could be entrusted only to a monk with “thoroughly proven chastity and cleanliness.”32 En­glish reformers in the previous c­ entury had also enforced a strict code of conduct to protect younger monks from abuse by the adults. Not even the abbot—­much less the ordinary b ­ rothers—­was allowed to embrace or casually kiss the young boys, and sweet-­talking was forbidden. No one could remove a student from the custos for a private purpose, and even the custos was allowed to move about with a student only in the presence of a third party, ideally when the entire schola was pre­sent.33

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Monastic and cathedral schools differed in many ways, but if we follow Stephen Jaeger’s depiction of the latter, we must conclude that in both the relationship between students and teachers was expressed in similar ways.34 A popu­lar meta­phor at the time was the stamping of a seal: the teacher acted on the growing but still-­malleable mind of the student as if it w ­ ere made of wax. The picture contained two dif­fer­ent messages. The first was that passing on knowledge did not alter its content since students reproduced it accurately from their teachers. The second was that teachers had to utilize the exact time when the wax was neither too soft nor too hard, when the student was neither too immature nor already made too rigid by adulthood.35 This static view of higher knowledge is also reflected in how contemporaries recorded its history using the tópos of correct and accurately transmitted academic content. Sometime before 1028, the monk and historian Adémar de Chabannes thus wrote in the style of Matthew: “Bede taught Simplicius, and Simplicius taught Hrabanus who, coming from overseas, was received by Emperor Charles and made a bishop in France. He taught Alcuin, and Alcuin taught Smaragdus. Smaragdus then taught Theodulf, the bishop of Orléans, who taught Helias Scotigena, the bishop of Angoulême. Helias taught Heiric, and Hieric left ­behind as the heirs of his wisdom (heredes philosophie reliquit) the monks Remigius, Hucbald, and Calvus.”36 The direct succession from teacher to student was evidently seen as the one social configuration that guaranteed the survival of the norma rectitudinis.37 It also suggested that imparted knowledge was timeless, that the teaching of f­uture generations hearkened back to the very triumph that the disciples of the fisherman Peter had achieved over the wisdom of Plato.38 The education described using this tópos often relied on prospective students being removed from their kinship groups at a young age and handed over to a school and a teacher. Monks w ­ ere well aware of the difficulty of admitting ­children and teen­agers into the cloister, but as ­bearers of the intellectual tradition, they also saw its benefits. The younger the discipuli, the more malleable and receptive they would be and the closer they could come to the Christian ideal of the puer senex. Jesus, who had already been a perfect person in the womb, had astounded the doctores of the ­temple with his questions and answers at the tender age of twelve (Luke 2:46).39 ­Those who entered the abbey at a ­later age had to take care that they kept up pace with their younger confratres in terms of artistic and liturgical virtuosity.40 Schooling in the broad sense was intended for the many, but the paradigmatic form of the schola was small and intimate, a community striving



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t­ oward an intellectual ideal and focused on high spiritual goals unattainable to most. Never do we hear of a student’s strug­gle to master the arts coming into conflict with their effort to prove their worth to their teacher. The Casus Sancti Galli, a monastic history written around the m ­ iddle of the eleventh ­century by Ekkehard IV, a teacher at St. Gall, affirms that the abbey’s spiritual and intellectual tradition regarded achieving one’s personal intellectual goals as one and the same as loyalty to teacher and tradition. The school even endorsed this unity.41 The hierarchical relationship of older and younger corresponded to the superiority of the teacher’s knowledge over that of the student. The pro­cess of education could be described using the imagery of a ­father nurturing a son, such as when Hildemar of Corbie wrote in his commentary on the Benedictine Rule that “one who is instructed is the son of the one who instructed him.” 42 ­There was even talk of the student being obliged to love his teacher more than his birth ­father. Parents provided bodily existence, but the teacher nourished spiritual and intellectual capacity—­which was more valuable?43 The letter-­writing culture that connected teacher and student even when apart played a significant role in perpetuating this relationship. The tone of ­t hese letters was sensuous and intimate, or as Mia Münster-­Swendsen, the expert on t­ hese letters, has described it, an “erotics of instruction.” 44 In their letters, teacher and student used the full repertoire of emotions to establish their mutual affection: confessions of love wrapped in rich, erotic imagery; bouts of despair; and jealous drama. The former student is said to be sweeter to the teacher than the taste of honey; it is not the honey that creates this sweetness, but rather the love that invades their hearts and unites them in mutual embrace.45 The teacher suspects that the beloved student has turned his attention ­toward another—­alter amatur homo! He then soaks the student’s bed with tears.46 Submission is offered, and the withdrawal of love is threatened. The student begs the teacher to discipline him once again since no blow is crueler than when a teacher no longer cares enough to do so. A student confesses that he has entrusted secrets to a third party but insists that only the teacher is aware of his deepest counsel.47 The semantics of epistolary friendship give the impression of a relationship based on total intimacy, reciprocity, and dependability; of one enriched with the vocabulary of intimate relations; of corporality and submission; of devotion and jealously; of nuditas and the perfect imitation of the teacher by the student; and, fi­nally, of the exclusion of third parties. It ­will be impor­tant to return to this last aspect.

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The corporeal relationship between teachers and students leads to a related topic: how teachers should apply corporal punishment to students. They should do it with love rather than anger, and without the intention of inspiring fear in the pupil or humiliating him in front of o ­ thers. The figure of plagosus Orbilius, the pedantic disciplinarian of Horace, was frowned on.48 This topic held some importance in lit­er­a­t ure reflecting on practical education. While some texts criticize the beating of students in excess, the practice appears to have been well established and to have gone mostly unchallenged. It did not mark the end, or even a suspension, of the intimate relationship between teacher and student, but rather its realization. When the rod was applied, the blow—­w ithout direct physical contact—­ritualized and sublimated the aggression, assigning it a higher meaning in the ­purpose of education. “To live ­u nder the rod” meant to go to school, and  in this context the blows ­were seen as a form of educational intimacy. ­Here, as elsewhere, “praise of the whip” enters into the history of sensuality.49 When a teacher went overboard, accusations of sexual misconduct could occur, such as when the ascetic Romuald severely beat one of his students, a young nobleman named Romanus. Romanus accused Romuald of committing a sexual offense against him, and the other students seem to have trusted the former over the latter. Indeed, the accusation seemed so plausible that some of them, in a collective outburst of anger, even wanted to lynch their teacher.50 ­These letters ­were seen in the past as evidence of uninhibited homoerotic exchange, but this reading has been mostly discarded in recent times.51 In its place, it has become common to read the “love affair” between teacher and student as functionally directed t­oward educational success. Love between them was thought to guarantee effective education. Along ­t hese lines, Stephen Jaeger has advanced an interpretation of con­temporary education, especially at the cathedral schools, as aimed t­oward achieving a perfect correspondence between intellect and be­hav­ior. Before him, the intellectual fertility of the epoch had been deeply misunderstood by scholars who judged it against the standards of the ­later scholastic era and its abundance of learned texts and scientific theories. According to Jaeger, the protagonists of the older, “charismatic” era did not give much thought to such efforts. For them, it was more impor­tant to produce perfect p ­ eople with corresponding physical, moral, and intellectual stature.52 Teachers, who w ­ ere seen as mediators of higher ideas, would try to embody t­ hese ideals as much as pos­si­ble. Students,



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in turn, would try to refine their own ethics and morals by imitating their teachers in knowledge, attitude, and composure.53 For Jaeger, certain behavioral norms guided the communication between students and teachers. For example, students carefully observed the body and be­hav­ior of their teachers as a documentum for the accuracy of their teaching.54 In this way, love and adoration became more than ­simple ­matters of feeling; they represented a moral code, a behavioral norm. Students needed to love the charismatic teacher: the honor of both depended on upholding this norm at all times. As Jaeger puts it, “charisma stimulated imitation.”55 According to Jaeger, the beginning of the new schools and the new scholarship brought an end to this charismatic culture. It was Peter Abelard, a­ fter all, who showered his teacher Anselm of Laon with scorn and derision.56 Jaeger, an intellectual nostalgic with a profound knowledge of the documentary evidence, seeks to preserve the memory of its magisterial “charismatic culture” in large part b ­ ecause he believes that it was overshadowed by the newer narrative of an “intellectual culture” of scholasticism that emerged around 1100.57 Some doubts emerge. Can the history of schools and knowledge ­really be summarized so neatly as a sequence of charismatic and intellectual phases?58 In any case, Jaeger’s work provides lasting merit by showing how the emotions that ­shaped early medieval concepts of the student-­teacher relationship found expression in their mutual physicality. Schooling was not so much about abstract emotions, but about the correspondence of feelings and be­ hav­iors, about the disciplining of the intellect and body, and about mastering standardized knowledge and appropriate demeanor. For the latter, close contact with the model of the teacher was essential. More recent researchers have been inspired to partially refine and revise Jaeger’s model. Mia Münster-­Swendsen, a Danish historian who has written on the “mastery model” of monastic education during the early and High ­Middle Ages, describes the love of student for teacher (in her words a “love relationship”) and their close daily proximity as central ele­ments of a larger educational proj­ect.59 Sita Steckel has also treated the subject more broadly in a book on “cultures of learning” (Kulturen des Lernens). Steckel is particularly successful in orienting student-­teacher communication within the broader ethical and religious vision of monasticism. Covering the Carolingian era all the way up to the prosecutions of theologians in the 1140s, she compares the teaching culture of schools with the religious doctrine of the monasteries.60

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Through their perspectives, Jaeger, Münster-­Swendsen, and Steckel have greatly improved our understanding of early medieval schools and their culture. Shedding light on the entire m ­ ental horizon, they have shown this era to be more than just a prelude to the ­later era of “high schools.” To a considerable degree, the older attribution of charisma to the teacher and the correlation of perfect knowledge to an exemplary lifestyle do stand in striking opposition to the sardonic glee with which ­later ambitious scholars challenged their teachers, mocked them, and left them on bad terms. But Jaeger’s nostalgic version of a lost world can also be misleading. We should ask if the student-­teacher relationship did not also possess certain dangers—as we ­w ill soon see in the example of Guibert of Nogent—­a nd ­whether emotions continued to play a central role in the following period. ­After dwelling a bit longer with Jaeger and his perspective, we ­will see what other social consequences could result from placing absolute trust in the teacher. By inquiring into specific intimate dimensions of the scholae, we w ­ ill thus modify and transform the notion of a charismatic teaching style, of Münster-­Swendsen’s “mastery model.” Body Language and an Overtaxed Teacher To understand how students and teachers came to depict such strikingly intimate relations in their letters, we must see how images of sensuality entered the academic milieu. For this purpose, we must turn again to the ancient pagan school curriculum introduced above. Since grammar lessons employed Latin poetry, students learned certain ele­ments of the ancient code of love and eroticism through it. Famously, Augustine (d. 430)—­for whom language acquisition as a child went hand in hand with acquiring the ability to sin—­remembered how, as a young pagan, he had learned inoffensive Latin words such as imber, aureus, and gremium via a mnemonic sentence in which Jupiter poured his golden rain (imber aureus) onto Danae’s lap (gremium).61 ­These kinds of h ­ azards and side effects persisted in medieval lessons. Even young recruits of cathedral and monastic schools practiced using memorable phrases such as “love your spouse” and “flee the prostitute.” 62 Only model students such as Bruno of Cologne, the ­brother of Emperor Otto I, managed to remain serious while reading the ancient Latin comedies (out loud with roles divided up) by concentrating on the style while ignoring the contents. Not every­one was able to maintain such self-­restraint.63 Commonly used in grammar lessons was the Liber Catonianus, a textbook that contained pas-



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sages from Ovid’s Remedia amoris among other texts.64 ­There have certainly been more boring school readings: how many thousands of American adolescents, for example, have rummaged in vain around The Scarlet Letter looking for racy details? Even such steadfast personalities as Bernard of Clairvaux, whom we ­will meet again, used the Remedia and Metamorphoses as reservoirs from which they could sprinkle their thoughts with a bit of color.65 The erotic passages from Peter Abelard’s Historia calamitatum are another good example as well. Th ­ ose who did not get enough erotic Ovid from their school readings even composed their own Ovid—­the medieval pseudo-­ovidiana.66 Monastic thinkers endorsed an image of the schola that was very dif­fer­ ent from the one presented so far. They assumed that the schools—­and above all the grammar lessons (especially the elementary lessons for the small and impressionable)—­served as a gateway to dangerous urbanitas, a worldly, elegant, and amorous culture that threatened the souls of students. Monastic biographies often depict the ambitious young man who, ­after deciding on an academic path, turned around at just the right time, as if on a threshold, and opted for the better monastic life. Gregory the G ­ reat employed this plot structure quite vividly in his depiction of Saint Benedict, who had already set his foot “as if upon the threshold of the world” when he chose to enter the liberal arts schools in Rome.67 Of course, he then de­cided against it and chose a life agreeable to God. Similar stories circulated about Caesarius of Arles and Bernard of Clairvaux, the latter of whose ­brothers had allegedly pushed him ­toward worldly studies. Bernard’s ­mother held him back, however, and encouraged the ­career path that he soon accepted. Rather than the urban schools, he and his companions entered the secluded abbey of Cîteaux in 1112.68 Very dif­fer­ent was Guibert of Nogent’s education by a private tutor, which took place mostly before he de­cided on a monastic life. This case is worth treating in depth ­because it clarifies—as if through a magnifying glass—­ just how intimate, and also excluding, student-­teacher relations could be outside the monastic confines. Guibert recorded it in his memoirs, which he modeled on Augustine’s Confessions and wrote around 1115 when he was far removed from his early teacher.69 Raised fatherless in his m ­ other’s ­house­hold, Guibert was provided with an in-­house teacher. He could have attended classes with other local noble-­born students, but his teacher was convinced to leave his own residence, to move in with Guibert’s m ­ other, and to begin private lessons ­there. Looking back, Guibert recognized that his

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teacher was motivated in part by the opportunity to develop a friendship with his ­mother. Guibert considered his teacher, who he referred to anonymously as grammaticus, as a “marginal man.” Having found in teaching the opportunity to make a living only late in life, he occupied a ­middle position between a servant and a private tutor, relying entirely on the noble parents of his pupils for maintenance. His social placelessness became even more obvious when he moved in with Guibert’s ­mother. The two soon began to shun the outside world, avoiding onlookers who derided such a relationship between a noble ­widow and a private tutor, and who gossiped that some critical priests had gone so far as to place a cross on her loins.70 Up to her death, Guibert was able to interact with his m ­ other only through the mediation of this marginal man and had to constantly reckon with him regarding even personal decisions. Guibert’s teacher took a risk by moving from his own residence onto the estate of Guibert’s m ­ other. Not only might he offend the parents of the other students; he was exchanging a stable position with Guibert’s nearby relatives for an uncertain position with a single ­woman. His previous position had been socially and financially inferior for sure, but the new arrangement was socially vague and thus also precarious. Guibert recorded how the teacher explained that he came to accept the arrangement ­a fter being moved by a dream involving his pupil: One night, as he slept in his room—­I can see it still, it was the room where the w ­ hole cycle of “liberal arts studies” was taught in our town—he dreamed he saw a venerable-­looking, white-­haired old man leading me by the hand to his door. He s­ topped t­ here while I stared inside, then he pointed to the bed and said: “Go up to this man. He ­will take a ­great liking to you.” Then he let go of my hand, which ­until then he had been holding. I ran up to the man and began smothering his face with kisses. He woke up. He was so taken with affection for me that, without further delay, spurning any fear of my relatives (though he depended on them for his, as well as his ­family’s, entire substance), he consented to come and live at my ­mother’s residence.71 Guibert left l­ittle doubt that his teacher was a terrible pedagogue. Having taken up teaching late, he did not have a strong grasp of the material. In retrospect, Guibert recognized that the excessive beatings he had received,



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although passed off as an expression of deep love, ­were ­really the result of his teacher’s blatant inadequacy. Th ­ ese marks of abuse—­placed on a child’s body by a grown man—­were clearly not an isolated incident: their evidence had to be hidden from t­ hose around them.72 One day, when Guibert’s m ­ other discovered welts on his back and dark spots on his arms, she was understandably shocked. But her first impulse was not to dismiss the hotheaded teacher but rather to give up on the plans for her son’s ecclesiastical ­career. Guibert was able to dissuade her only with assurance that he would rather die than leave ­behind his lessons and his prospects of becoming a priest. As an adult, Guibert reflected on how this absurd arrangement between a young noble and such a teacher could have been pos­si­ble. How could this man, ­after rising to his m ­ other’s trust despite their difference in social standing, achieve such total control over his existence? How could his dressing habits, his social life, his reading, and his f­ uture plans be made subject to such a figure? How could a mere grammarian become a lifelong authority over his conscience? Two intimate but precarious relationships made this unlikely connection pos­si­ble. First, the affiliation between ­mother and teacher, which was prob­ ably platonic and religious. Second, the amor between teacher and student, which manifested in kisses and beatings. The memory of the saevus amor bestowed on him by his teacher prompted Guibert to make some insightful general reflections on the failure of student-­teacher communication. At the end of a passage on his teacher’s incompetence and punishment practices, he wrote: “­There is nothing harder than trying to hold forth about something you yourself d ­ on’t understand. It is obscure for the speaker, and even more so for the hearer; it is ­really as if both ­were being turned to stone.”73 This love, which Guibert was able in l­ ater years to expose as an illusion, was expressed through intimate practices of kissing and beating.74

Social Groups and Intimacy Esotericism, Agon, and Group Building The bond formed between student and teacher would ideally last their lifetimes. Contemporaries considered it power­ful proof that a teacher had taught successfully, had passed on correct information, and through his actions had morally obliged the student to emulate him and pass on his lifestyle and

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knowledge even further. The author of the monastic chronicle of St. Gall (Casus Sancti Galli) believed that the grandeur of the abbey in the Carolingian past was already typified by the affinity and intensity of student-­teacher connections. He recorded, for example, that at the funeral ceremony of the famous teacher Iso (d. 871), his former students had shown up “from e­ very direction.”75 No mere private affair, the event attested to the abbey’s high level of intellectual production, including the quality of its prayer and chant, and the beauty and accuracy of the written texts that came out of its scriptorium. The exclusivity—­indeed esotericism—of the schola of St. Gall found a companion in the episteme of the seven liberal arts: where the former prevailed, the latter stood in high regard, and together they served their mutual purposes. Before assessing the social bonds of the schools, something more must be said about their dynamics and emotional regime. In addition to the student-­teacher relationship, the complex relations between students played no small role in the transmission and transformation of learned knowledge. Again, the Casus Sancti Galli provide guidance: they allow us to learn more about ­t hese tight bonds, ask what significance was attached to them, and see what intellectual dynamics they promoted.76 Around renowned teachers, small groups of like-­minded discipuli gathered who interacted with each other frequently. In extreme cases, they formed esoteric “in-­groups” that other students found difficult to penetrate. Many examples from the Casus Sancti Galli show how novices tried to gain admission into such groups of favored and proficient students. In the ­middle of the ninth ­century, Notker Balbulus (“the Stammerer”), Ratpert, and Tuotilo, all three members of the convent since childhood, appear to have formed a sworn society based on camaraderie gained from studying together u ­ nder Iso. They ­were said to be “of one heart and one soul,” such that the deeds of one could not be recounted without mentioning the other two.77 The author portrayed them as inseparable, and they themselves called each other “my Ratpert” or “my heart.” When one of them embarked on a journey, the other two would embrace him and make him promise to be careful on the way.78 They cut themselves off from newcomers, and even though Iso had other students, it was they who preserved his reputation as a teacher such that even 150 years ­after his death another abbot was inspired to have his history written down. The tight cohesion of this group allowed them to cultivate their specific strengths. Notker composed poetry while Tuotilo worked artistically and with his hands. Handsome and well built, Tuotilo also took a leading role in



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the instruction of young nobles. Ratpert appears a bit colorless compared to the other two, but he was no less effective as a teacher. The members of this triumvirate looked down on the “slackers and windbags” who quarreled with them.79 They ­were also not unaccustomed to jealously. Their emotions ­were sorely taxed when the master gave too much attention to a novice, as when their rival Solomon judged them to be “enviers” (invidi).80 The meritocratically minded trio also opposed the tendency for t­ hose of privileged ancestry to receive special attention from the teacher and inside access to a teacher-­student relationship. Notker, in par­t ic­u ­lar, would ­later compose texts in which he berated the privileged students for their incompetence and praised the lowborn ones for their diligence.81 The abbey as a ­whole was competitively oriented ­toward entrance into the claustrum—­into the Holy of Holies. In the same way, students strove ­after closeness to the teacher and affiliation with the tightest circle of favored students, goals that produced competition and jealously, and generated corresponding modes of be­hav­ior. For the secular cleric John of Salisbury (d. 1180), it was a common adage that three places in the world fostered jealousy and envy: the school, the abbey, and the royal court. In all three, positions ­were determined by relative proximity to a center and by the perpetual prospect that one might improve his situation by drawing closer to that center.82 An example of John’s illustrates this situation well. Plato had recounted that he inspired such envy and resentment from his fellow students that he once complained about it to Socrates. In return, he received terse but striking advice: only the ugly and contemptible draw no envy on themselves. Plato was being told that he was not simply a victim of the other students, but also an active player in the strug­gle for attention and success.83 The agonistic aspect of school life is rarely as clear as in the Casus Sancti Galli, but it can also be found in other accounts of the education of exemplary students. Bishop Bernward of Hildesheim (d. 1022), as a student, was said to have been “superior to his contemporaries by tenfold in ­every re­spect” and began to instruct his fellow students in Hildesheim and to imprint his knowledge into their memory.84 Benno (d. 1088), l­ater the second bishop of Osnabrück with that name, blew past “his contemporaries and fellow students with his speed in learning” and was “ahead in intellect and knowledge at nearly e­ very point.” He was soon drawn “to the intellectual arena,” where he sought to prove himself “in scholarly competition” (inter conscolares agonistas).85 Bruno of Cologne (d. 965), who—as the son of a king—­likely already held a special position at his school in Utrecht, was described by his biographer as

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a model student. He did not let his enthusiasm be spoiled “by the inertia and levity of ­others” or “by useless and idle gossip”—­surely hinting h ­ ere at his classmates. While o ­ thers laughed at classroom antics and at the plays they studied in their grammar lessons, he remained ever serious.86 The internal student hierarchy depended not only on social background and the number of years in the class, but also on the devotion students showed to their revered teacher. The position of favorite student, the crown prince of the classroom as it w ­ ere, was often awarded to the one who followed the teacher without question. When John of Salisbury was young, a priest who was supposed to be teaching on the Psalms chose instead to spend the class time reading the ­f uture with a crystal ball. ­Because John showed skepticism, he was declared ungifted and excluded from the mantic practices while more obsequious students fared better by claiming to see hazy images.87 Conflicts over hierarchy within the schools w ­ ere dif­fer­ent in character from conflicts with outsiders, such as between Iso’s schola and the surrounding monastic milieu. A newcomer like Solomon inspired jealousy while incompetent would-be masters (semimagistri) who taught Latin incorrectly stirred opposition.88 Although Ekkehard IV took the side of his heroes in the Casus Sancti Galli, it is obvious in his account that the three confratres did not always find it easy to h ­ andle elite scions with the expected monastic humility. When monks during the Gregorian reform era left their convents to seek isolation, they looked back with frustration at the fuss of the in-­groups and the competitive aspect of monastic life. Confrontation had taken up more space ­t here than the Psalms. Disputes and rumors had defined their lives.89 ­There is far more to the early medieval schola than the neat model of unbroken knowledge transmission would seem to suggest. Defined both by reverence and devout love for the teacher, and by competition for internal status and alliances, the schools both excluded and included, which incentivized constant squabbling. Verbal and even physical fights arose, such as when the St. Gall trio teamed up to knock around their fellow student Sindolf.90 The rivalry over attention and group position in the scholae might also be summed up as a strug­gle for philosophical truth. Adopting a conceptual and theoretical approach in this way can help us to integrate the emotional aspects of the student-­teacher relationship with their physical counter­parts and with the competitive attention economy of the schools. Since our survey of academic relationships ­will now expand to the “long” twelfth c­ entury and its fledgling sciences, we must turn our attention away from the Casus Sancti Galli and their era.



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Friendship and Love We ­will now take up the concepts of love and friendship, which have better grounding in modern research. With good reason, cultural history t­ oday treats both concepts as symbolic codes specific to socie­ties and cultures, and as attitudes subject to historical change.91 Medieval authors speak of amicitia or amor, of caritas or dilectio, which undoubtedly refer to real and tangible feelings, but are also anchored in a realm of cultural semantics not intuitively accessible to us. They are inscribed in a cluster of ideas shared by dif­fer­ent lovers and their respective environments. They exist as possibilities ready to be applied when ­people fall in love or establish bonds of friendship. “Does not ‘love at first sight’ presume that one was already in love before the first sight?” asked Niklas Luhmann with an eye t­oward the modern era.92 Luhmann could just as well have pointed to Augustine as he plunged into the urban tumult of Carthage at seventeen years of age: turning his ear inward, he questioned ­whether he was at last feeling the passions that he had heard of since his earliest grammar lessons. “To Carthage I came,” he recalled twenty-­five years l­ater, “where a w ­ hole frying-­pan full of abominable loves crackled round about me, and on ­every side. I was not in love as yet, yet I loved to be in love, and with a more secret kind of want, I hated myself having ­little want.” 93 We have already seen that language instruction at the schools conveyed a code of passion and desire. The story of Dido and Aeneas influenced Augustine so greatly that it would accompany him from then on as an interpretive scheme for his own life. Through his instruction in the Latin language, he had been initiated into the code of desire and sexuality. He traveled to Carthage on the tracks of his hero, Aeneas, and then Virgil led him to the pen— to write his Confessions.94 Having a code on hand encouraged individuals like Augustine to allow their feelings to grow in a certain direction. Long before early modernity, the lover already served as a prototype for the self-­explorer: at the most crucial moment, he turned his ear inward and asked if his feelings aligned with what he had heard in his milieu since childhood. The code both provided him an interpretive aid for his experiences and actions and also helped him define ­t hose experiences; through it, he understood both the world and his own self.95 To make this interplay between codifying and actualizing feelings useful for our study of the schools and their knowledge, we must separate out

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several levels. Although ­t hese levels ­were developed and elaborated by researchers working on twelfth-­century epistolary culture, their methodological applicability is without a doubt of wider importance. The most static level was the everyday usage of words. Consistency was crucial ­here, as seen in the marked conservatism with which certain word families close in meaning to amor, caritas, dilectio, or amicitia ­were applied. This conservatism was further reinforced by the fact that authors usually drew on a common body of Christian and pagan texts. Even in combination, ­these words w ­ ere generally used in highly conventional contexts. Julian Haseldine has shown how a serene and playful tone needed to be ­adopted when tricky and even serious ­matters had to be discussed.96 Furthermore, monastic letter writers often employed the vocabulary of friendship and love when they w ­ ere not particularly close with the recipient or when some conflict lingered between them. True friends did not need such assurances. When Peter the Venerable, the famous abbot of Cluny, wanted to express a truly intimate bond, he made an effort to employ uncommon words. Words such as carissimus or dilectissimus ­were too conventional and could be applied to basically anyone who was not a pope, king, or bishop.97 For ­people who meant a ­great deal to him, he used terms like amantissimus or dulcissimus, ­doing so not so much for their semantic content but to signal that he was using rare words. When Peter sought to express his feelings or bonds even more strongly, he used meus or the vocative mi, or he purposefully employed terms that broke the rules and flagrantly transcended normal status barriers.98 The language of letters was a difficult one to master.99 ­These epistolary examples show that variations could be introduced on a second, syntactic level using targeted deviations from convention and surprising combinations, and by treating the subject m ­ atter with creative formulations and thoughts. In this manner, elementary terms became embedded in dif­fer­ent contexts that ­were often so close that they produced irritating ambiguity. Such terminological polyvalence enabled subtle relationships to be established within the common body of ideas, thus infusing everyday monastic life with the eroticism of love lit­er­a­ture and suggesting that normal activities might shine in the light of something extraordinary and emotionally unpre­ce­dented. Employing the rhe­toric of student-­teacher love required writers to constantly increase the stakes. For example, by alluding to the classical tradition of “amour fou” and bodily pain, the teacher might write that he was guided by a saevus amor for the student. The reader could then



Schools of Loyalty 39

observe the precise moment when the latent eroticism exceeded the well-­ established norms of student-­teacher love.100 Once the innuendo was detected, the pupil understood that the rest of the letter needed to be read with extreme care as to determine what exact emotional and physical dimensions the master was trying to express through the turn of phrase. The third, crucial level was that of social discourse, which guided social interactions in groups and in much larger collectives. Specific perceptions of love and fidelity, of nearness and intimacy, ­were h ­ ere able to become the very fabric that held social institutions together. In monastic schools, one such basic model was love, which was ever pre­sent in their discourse. Jaeger attempted to do the justice to the subject through the comprehensive categories of “ennobling,” “charismatic,” “aristocratic,” “distant,” “sublime,” and “chaste” love.101 We can see that such terms ­were discourse-­specific when we examine the concepts of love and friendship in vari­ous literary contexts including discourses on secular rulership,102 on monasteries, and by writers who began to aggressively reappropriate the ancient texts on friendship during the long twelfth c­ entury.103 Through analy­sis of the major monastic rules, Ulrich Köpf has shown that a monk’s love (dilectio, caritas, amor) for his abbot and b ­ rothers—­following the commandment of universal Christian love—­ constituted a norm ­every bit as fundamental as fraternitas and honor. Monks treated friendship, however, quite differently. While love for a homogenous group was acceptable, amicitia was thought to be an extreme form of Christian charity that was difficult to control and might lead to undesirably exclusive relationships between individuals. Such intimate bonds could divide a convent or at least cause unease.104 Contrary to modern conceptions, monks saw friendship as an unwelcome and intensified form of love that was exclusive and esoteric. It was not seen as compatible with the norms of the monastic community, or in the words of Aelred of Rievaulx: “With the law of love, we are obliged to draw not just our friends but also our enemies close to our heart. We call ­people ‘friends’ only when we do not fear to entrust our heart and all that is in it to them.”105 As we have already seen, the scholae of the convents nevertheless received key texts of expressive friendship. Somewhat paradoxically, they pro­cessed them along the lines of what we might call the humanistic discourse of the twelfth c­ entury, which we w ­ ill 106 deal with l­ater. ­Under its influence, statements about friendship came to resonate with an intensity that might seem to the modern reader, just as it did to Ivan Illich, “shameless.”107

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Aelred’s above statement sketched the relative positions of “friendship” and “love” in monastic discourse. But it also integrated the two into something new that possessed an entirely dif­fer­ent significance in humanistic discourse. In the semantics of love, both discourses and their rules converged and added even more variety and ingenuity to speech.108 Students in the monastic schools ­were familiar with Cicero’s writing on friendship, with Sallust’s, and with the works of Ambrose, Augustine, and John Cassian. In the words of Aelred once again: “The origin and source of friendship is love. As such, t­ here can be love without friendship, but never friendship without love.” Although Aelred, like the monastic rules and consuetudines, held love to be more acceptable than friendship, he seems to have drawn precisely the opposite conclusion ­here.109 Intimacy What role did intimacy play in the emotional regime of the schools as they underwent change and differentiation? The use of the term in the social sciences does not appear to offer any guidance. So far, it has been assigned diverse and contradictory connotations. For one, ­t here is the idea of the binary partner relationship where lovers can be intimate only with each other, and intimacy finds its real purpose only in sexual pairing.110 But intimacy is also used in reference to sexual intercourse detached from love, duration, and fulfillment. The concept seems to sit on both sides of a fundamental distinction. On the one hand, it is bound up with the social norm of a two-­way, symmetrical, and long-­term relationship that must include intimacy of mind and body. On the other hand, when t­ hese characteristics are lacking, sex comes off as entirely plea­sure oriented, as just a natu­ral way to let off steam. When sex, the “real asset,”111 is set aside, intimacy can also be associated with nonphysical contexts such as intense m ­ ental and intellectual closeness between friends. This closeness was expressed through certain forms of oral and written communication such as the mutual pouring out of feelings found in epistolary culture.112 ­Here again the concept of intimacy falls on two sides of another fundamental distinction. In one sense it is physical, but in the other it is proof for the transcendence of an immaterial m ­ ental unio. Sexual intercourse may be the “real asset” of one form, but for the realization of the other, of intimate friendship, only a writing implement is necessary.113 This ambivalence aside, we can begin to sense a core aspect of the concept, one applicable to social as well as to sociohistorical contexts. Intimacy,



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especially in the binary model, is characterized by connections between ­people that are both selective and intended to be exclusive. Through choice the bond is realized to the exclusion of other possibilities and is then stabilized by the intent that this exclusivity ­will endure. Genuine social meaning is created in this way. That A maintains an intimate relationship with B implies that no similar bond can be established with C or D, and that it ­will remain so tomorrow and the day ­after. Intimacy ­refers not only positively to the selected bond, but also negatively to the renunciation of alternative bonds. This latter dimension is encountered quite frequently in the letters discussed ­earlier, both in the princi­ple of exclusivity and in the figure of the third—­whether it be a collective or an individual—­ whom the intimate bond avoids. Hildegar once said to his beloved former teacher Fulbert of Chartres that he granted to no one e­ lse complete understanding of his internal affairs. In the same way, a former student of Wolzo assured him that he wrote to him alone and that he should not show the letter to anyone e­ lse. The imaginary third, the eternal companion of the intimate community, lies in wait for betrayal and for the loving relationship to be compromised. The figure of the interloper should be used only vaguely to constitute and stabilize the intimate bond, as an affirming entity and a threat that welds the lovers together.114 Two remarkable letters sent between nuns in twelfth-­ century letter collection from Tegernsee illustrate this practice well. When physically apart from the other, the one does not wish to hear or see anyone ­else. The other is said to be without compare, more beloved than all ­others. The one claims that the other is the only ­woman ever selected by her heart.115 “You are firmly affixed in my heart before all o ­ thers,” she says, adding that “the nunnery sends you pleasant greetings, my lovely pearl.”116 Other letters close with a request that no “third eye” might read the letter or with claims that the author wrote even though she lacked permission.117 Comparatives and superlatives are prominent: “to the sweetest of all my relatives . . . ​no ­family member has ever received me so kindly in words and in deeds.”118 Disappointment hits hard and may even lead to the threat that communication ­will cease.119 ­These letters ­were prob­ably never actually sent. What ­matters is their message, which every­one who studied Latin poetry understood clearly. Intimacy placed lovers in a relationship apart from their environs and had consequences for virtually all other kinds of close relationships, including those of larger groups structured through feelings and bodily expressions.

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The selectivity and exclusivity of social relationships within social communities can also be understood in this way. Intimacy exposes tensions and contradictions even in groups and milieus whose norms do not approve of se­lection and exclusion. Monasteries, for example, ­were supposed to be governed by mutuus amor, by brotherhood, and by the requirement that ­every member be “of one heart and one soul.” The same was true for the pursuit of higher knowledge, which valued the princi­ple of communality as a basic ethical norm. The truth, ­after all, was the truth no ­matter who spoke it. True knowledge knew only diligence, aptitude, and perception and could tolerate esotericism only with difficulty. For ­t hese reasons, as we ­will see, intimacy provoked as much tension in the academic world as it did in the abbeys. All the same, it still guided the early development of academia and s­ haped its social characteristics.

CHAPTER 3

Groups of Enthusiasts School as a Utopian Place in the Era of Church Reform A Third Way: The F ­ ree Schools A Shortage of Attention On the search for the origins of self-­referential science, we have traveled into an era where it did not exist. Higher education in the schools before 1050 was mostly oriented t­ oward a specific goal that was usually extrinsic and religious. It was designed around the ­f uture activities of its alumni, in other words of deacons and priests, canons and monks.1 But this detour was not in vain ­because it has brought into focus the inner workings of the schools, which we have treated in depth and come to grips with in anticipation of what follows. We focused on three overlapping dimensions of teaching and learning: the epistemic order of the scholae, their group structure, and the emotional economy that governed their groups. The guiding princi­ple of their lessons and their production of texts was that they led to correct results as judged according to the standards of an idealized past. Essential h ­ ere was the emotional thread that tied student to teacher (and vice versa) and ensured that the norma rectitudinis for proper engagement with the intellectual tradition was preserved across generations of students. It would be a m ­ istake to describe this approach to higher knowledge as unproblematic and harmonious. We have already identified at least two sources of unrest in the schools that offered starting points for change. For one, their curricular content, especially the ancient pagan lit­er­a­ture, far exceeded the norms of correctness in fostering engagement and excitement. It encouraged students, among other t­ hings, to mea­sure their personal situations and emotions against what they read and to orient themselves accordingly in the world. That the norms of common life endorsed in the monastic and cathedral schools followed a dif­fer­ent notion of group building

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and emotions, and that monks ­were also obligated by rule and by custom to follow the difficult-­to-­realize norm of “mutual love” (mutuus amor), produced tensions and contradictions, but also productive dissonance.2 Students pursued individual friendships and other exclusive relationships to their fullest even though they ­were frowned on according to the basic princi­ples of monastic life. At the same time, social position, for example the noble ancestry that followed some students into the schola, unleashed energy for self-­reflection and for thinking about the relative values of merit and origin. We would do well to inquire further about t­ hese circumstances in the writing of Notker Balbulus, the most successful of the triumvirate from the previous chapter. What effect did emotions have? The universal ideal of correctness manifested itself in a sort of competitive, zero-­sum attention economy. Only one student (or at most a few) could occupy the role of crown prince of the classroom, and the devotion of the teacher ­toward one or more students seems to have meant less attention and open affection for the other students. The emotional regime of the schools thus converted a form of intellectual commerce whose product was in theory unlimited (since the entire class could solve their assignments correctly) into a competitive practice. A student’s successful mastery of the assignments lessened the status of the conscolares, which encouraged them to view individual pro­gress as a b ­ attle of position. We ­will continue to contemplate ­t hese ideas and see how they also apply to the interaction between correctness, which is also unlimited in theory, and truth. This approach is not new. Randall Collins has argued that the core of philosophical education, as well as the social core of philosophy in general, derive from the “emotional energies” of groups and networks, and from the rituals that unleash t­ hese energies.3 According to Collins, ­these energies arise from the interactions between ­t hose pre­sent and are thus characteristic of groups. Th ­ ese energies also have the power to shape individual members of the group.4 Collins understands philosophical creativity to derive from t­ hese energies, whose ideal breeding ground is not the admirable consonance of ­eager students but rather the rivalry between the more ambitious ones that motivates them to compete over position. Competition in this model occurs both within the school and between scholae. As Collins puts it, “the first burst of creativity occurs in rivalry, not in unity.” Working side by side in school, students are forced to be competitive and to take the stakes seriously. Rivals, taking the word (Latin: rivalis) literally, are ­t hose who draw ­water from the



Groups of Enthusiasts 45

same stream and thus pose a threat to each other. The challenge for each is to establish a position further upstream, closer to the source.5 ­Grand conjectures about philosophy and history tend to strug­gle when it comes to actually proving them. It is no won­der then that Collins’s ambitious theory about the social conditions of intellectual achievement, presented in the context of a thousand-­page global history of philosophy, has met with some skepticism. For our purposes, microhistory ­will be far more suitable for addressing the “emotional energies” of academic group situations. We w ­ ill look more closely at the “intimate” quality of the schools, and not just of the cathedral and monastic schools. In this chapter, we ­will see that science at the schools developed through student-­teacher intimacy but also was distinct from it. In some sense, the utopian world of the school—­a residential community based entirely on common knowledge—­provided the foundation for philosophizing. But at the same time, loyalty to one’s own magister was eventually forced to give way to a new devotion to truth. This chapter ­will chart the conditions that made this change pos­si­ble. The Seven Liberal Arts U ­ nder Way As hinted above, a third type of school existed alongside the fixed establishments: the “­free” school run by a teacher who offered lessons for compensation. Masters ran such schools like businesses, offering their knowledge to ­people who came to them or who employed them for some time. In most cases, teachers eventually sought to establish themselves in a permanent place in order to enjoy a less risky and precarious existence. During their peripatetic periods, they composed works as proof of their talent that could be presented to potential patrons and benefactors when needed. As a wandering teacher, Anselm of Besate, a scion of an eminent northern Italian f­ amily, used focused writing periods to prepare himself to face patrons and to cultivate his image as a well-­educated clericus. While on an extended trip through the cities of Italy, France, and Germany, he composed the Rhetorimachia, an eccentric and colorful work on rhetorical disputation. He was also fortunate enough on this trip to make the acquaintance of Emperor Henry III, who allowed him to grace the royal chapel with his knowledge.6 When efforts to find permanent positions did not succeed, magistri relied on extended stays in cities and in the residences of local noble families. A certain Herbert, for example, was employed as a clericus by a relative of

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the dukes of Normandy. Seeking further education, he went to Orléans ­because it seemed large enough to meet his needs. Once t­ here, he was advised by the locals to go to Stephen and Lisoius as they ­were wise and pious. Herbert followed this advice but encountered serious trou­ble: both teachers combined knowledge of Holy Scripture with scrutiny of the natu­ral world, which seemed suspicious and threatened to draw Herbert into the tempest of local rivalries.7 Guibert of Nogent’s teacher, who we have already met, first took up teaching at an advanced age. In his ­house, he received a small group of local aristocratic c­ hildren and instructed them in the elementary basics. He also offered lessons for more advanced students, prob­ably to secure a bit more income. The first of t­ hese was a handsome, spirited boy who liked to run around the surrounding vineyard playing games and pranks, while the second was the introverted and gullible Guibert. With kisses and slaps, the master tried to persuade Guibert of his love, and for the rest of his life Gui­ bert could not shake the man from his memory.8 Youths who grew up among dignitaries learned as part of their entourage. Benedict of Chiusa, the nephew of an abbot, studied u ­ nder many dif­fer­ent teachers alongside eight companions. This luxury supposedly cost his u ­ ncle two thousand solidi, an investment that made Benedict confident that he would become the next provost of the abbey of San Michele della Chiusa in Piedmont.9 The idea of the artes liberales facilitated and drove the lifestyle of the ­free magistri. The disciplines needed to be traversed one ­after another and, at least in regard to the “writing” arts of the trivium, formed a complete course. One who received only a bit of grammar instruction at a local school, but in the pro­cess began to take seriously the idea of the liberal arts, could easily be enticed into deeper study of grammar, dialectic, and rhe­toric. Such studies might even require traveling abroad. Students tended to gather where peripatetic teachers gave lessons, choosing to temporarily adopt their erratic lifestyle. So long as they made some pro­gress, they might then use their own knowledge to tutor the next generation of students. For this reason, reports often speak of young men who went around “learning and teaching” (discendo et docendo). A certain Udalbert fulfilled this double role as he traveled through France, Aquitaine, the Basque country, and fi­nally to Navarre. This “exceptional teacher” (eximius doctor) was said to have gathered a throng of students around himself and filled up “all of Spain with the light of his knowledge.”10 As we have seen, t­ here ­were only a few such teachers at first. It was difficult to survive as a peripatetic teacher, and only a few had the necessary qualifications even for elementary lessons. The aged Guibert of Nogent re-



Groups of Enthusiasts 47

membered about his mid-­eleventh-­century childhood how grammarians ­were so rare that “you could find hardly any in the towns (oppidis) and rarely any in the cities (urbibus). When one did manage to find such a teacher, they knew so ­little that they ­couldn’t even be compared to the wandering scholars of the pre­sent day.”11 When Guibert wrote down ­t hese lines around 1115, his environment had obviously changed drastically. ­Those who embarked on such a life in the eleventh ­century could acquire considerable reputation, especially if they managed to acquire an ecclesiastical office. In hindsight, ­t hose who succeeded tended to remember fondly the uncertain years of wandering. Lanfranc, ­later prior of the Norman abbey of Bec and archbishop of Canterbury, earned his early merit as just this sort of teaching scholar. Born to a good f­amily in Pavia, he set out first on a ­legal education as his parents had wanted. He focused on the fundamentals and then shifted to the artes liberales for a year. He then crossed over the Alps, taking on his own students as he traveled through France. Moving on to Normandy, he taught for a while in Avranches, where he began to ask himself ­whether he found literary studies truly and lastingly fulfilling. During a trip to Rouen, disaster struck when he was waylaid at night in a forest and was robbed and tied to a tree. Once the robbers had left, Lanfranc found himself with ample time for contemplation and prayer. He de­cided then to become a pious man, but rather than let his knowledge of the arts go to waste, he de­ cided from then on to dedicate his intellectual activity to the ser­vice of God.12 Lanfranc’s c­ areer followed established and widely accepted patterns. At last, “­after many detours,” he exchanged the fame of the traveling teacher for the regulated life of a monk or a canon (a position that carried responsibility).13 Such was expected of members of the intellectual elite, and Lanfranc would be remembered as an exemplary figure among them. Having attained worldly fame and wisdom, he had been plagued by doubts as to ­whether he had achieved anything truly meaningful. Fi­nally, he acquired impor­tant offices that left ­little time for studies and leisure. Even the best-­educated bishops found scarce time for reading.14 None of the writers who commented on Lanfranc’s ­career questioned ­t hese conservative values, which required exchanging literary leisure (otium) for the business (negotia) of episcopal life. Anselm of Besate’s aforementioned Rhetorimachia highlights the efforts taken by intellectuals to reconcile their wandering lifestyle with the norms of institutionalized schools. It shows strikingly how a liberal arts teacher, and one from an eminent f­ amily, tried to square this circle. In this work, written between 1046 and 1048, Anselm adamantly defends the activities of the

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traveling masters and also associates them with an academic tradition—in his case, the secta or disciplina of his often-­mentioned teacher Drogo of Parma.15 He describes traveling life as glamorous, calling it “peripatetic” with a hint of false modesty. He proudly lists the many teaching positions he held in Milan and Parma, in Reggio Emilia and around Italy, and ­later in Bamberg, Mainz, and elsewhere north of the Alps. He pre­sents himself not only as an intellectual globetrotter but as someone who, thanks to his revered teacher Drogo, was well supplied with a wide range of learning in the breadth of the arts, in the intensity of philosophical truth seeking, in judicial ­matters and imperial law, and in theology.16 In this work, which is overflowing with the specialized terms of vari­ous disciplines and with classical citations, the message seems to be that entering his school ­will make students optimally prepared for any intellectual activity. How did Anselm market ­t hese skills without recourse to the reputation of a monastic or cathedral school? By emphasizing his academic lineage both from Drogo, the ­g reat philosophus ­u nder whom he began his studies, and from Drogo’s top student Sichelm, u ­ nder whom he expanded his knowledge of rhe­toric and law (Rhet. 99). Drogo’s renown is recorded in other sources, so ­t here may be some truth to this story.17 To have studied ­under Drogo was clearly a source of g­ reat pride for Anselm, and he emphasized the intimate dimension of his academic relationships by utilizing the bold and superlative stylistic devices we encountered in other letters. In the Rhetorimachia, he included a letter addressed to “Drogo, the most excellent teacher, and to his equally excellent disciples” (Droconi Magistrissimo et eius discipulissimis).18 In another case, he compared praise from this preceptor and eminent patron, the highest of teachers who lacked in no area of knowledge, to a coronation (Rhet. 96.6). Despite Anselm’s l­ ater studies ­under Sichelm, his bond with the venerable Drogo remained unbreakable. Only with words of Roman law—­possession and adoption—­could he do it justice (Rhet. 103.11). Such a strong connection called for the introduction a third party to complete the picture. In the Rhetorimachia, this role is played by Anselm’s cousin and rival Rotiland, who despite being a fine fellow is forced to act as a punching bag for rhetorical thrashing (Rhet. 103.3). Anselm also mentions unspecified outsiders who engaged him in dialectical disputation and cast aspersions on his work (Rhet. 103.16; 180.7) out of envy for the intimacy of the Droconia secta (Rhet. 181.17). While it was pos­si­ble to do without the protection of a fixed school, one still needed the emotional energies of loyalty and enmity to fuel academic competition.



Groups of Enthusiasts 49

Both Lanfranc’s and Anselm’s biographies rest secure in the knowledge that the time spent wandering and teaching would end at some point and give way to a reputable position. Common opinion was less kind to teachers whose intellectual hunger did not follow the normal course. The depiction of master Manegold of Lautenbach and his f­amily life around 1060, while mostly fictitious, is a good example. Written a ­century ­later, the text describes this philosophus, the “teacher of modern teachers” (modernorum magister magistrorum), as living in Germany with his wife and with his ­daughters, who ­were so well lettered that they taught classes of their own.19 As tempting as it is to take ­t hese passages literally and, along with a few other witnesses, to make a case for female participation in in­de­pen­dent education, what they ­really seem to be saying is that Manegold’s family life was unusual and a break from the past. Soon a­ fter 1100, as Pa­ri­sian school activity began to bloom, Manegold was being credited with inventing a new way of life.20 The Objectionable Lifestyles of Wandering Teachers The number of mobile teacher-­entrepreneurs seems to have grown considerably during the second half of the eleventh ­century. But they also began to receive greater scrutiny. Con­temporary criticism tended to focus on the notion that they taught false and dangerous knowledge. ­There was talk of obscene grammar lessons, which from a monastic perspective seemed to be the dev­il’s work, just as bad as visiting prostitutes like the poets, phi­los­o­phers, and magicians ­were said to do.21 ­There was also talk of naturalists who circulated ideas about the world that w ­ ere false and contrary to the Bible. Seen as remnants of older pagan knowledge, t­ hese ideas w ­ ere associated especially with con­temporary opponents of the Roman popes.22 Another frequent target was dialectic, which was seen as a dangerous discipline that caused young men to trust too much in their meager rational abilities. Dialectic, it was said, could be misused to deny even the basic application of scholarly knowledge to ­matters of religion.23 Specialists in dialectic ­were accused of trying to cast their profession as the basis of all thinking, as fundamental to the argumentative use of language, and as essential for all higher studies. Logic—­strongly promoted by Carolingian thinkers—­was gradually becoming more than just a subdiscipline of the artes liberales. For observers, it seemed on the cusp of becoming the foundational methodology of all language-­dependent scholarship, threatening to colonize the other liberal arts in the pro­cess. Indeed, advocates of

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dialectic did not hesitate to elide their subject with philosophy as a ­whole on the grounds that it relied not on fallible interpretation but on reason itself.24 What more could a phi­los­o­pher want than to illuminate the truth? It was this optimism, combined with the technical language of dialectic, that stoked the resentment of suspicious contemporaries. The activities and intentions of the logicians ­were difficult to classify. They ­were neither masters of meditation nor careerists, and they prepared students neither for contemplating textual meaning nor for undertaking any specific worldly occupation. The trusted cata­logs of worldly vices had nothing to say about them, so what w ­ ere they exactly? Some initial clues can be gathered from the comments of their critics. Historians a c­ entury ago tended to group t­ hese critics who spoke up a­ fter 1050 u ­ nder the exaggerated category of “anti-­dialecticians.” Among the leading voices ­were Cardinal-­Bishop Peter Damian, the monk Otloh of St. Emmeram, Abbot Williram of Ebersberg, Abbot and Archbishop Lanfranc of Bec and Canterbury, and the canon Manegold, who authored a book against Abbot Wolfhelm of Brauweiler. The first anti-­dialectic polemics appeared in the 1060s and grew out of efforts to c­ ounter the eucharistic teaching of Berengar of Tours. From the very beginning, the critics suggested that the rationalistic rigor of the “dialecticians”—­a movement whose founder and first adherent was allegedly Berengar himself—­easily devolved into heresy and opposition to Pope Gregory VII, to his party, and to his ecclesiastical reforms.25 Although ­t hese critics harshly rebuked certain users of dialectic, the label “anti-­d ialectician” is misleading. Not only did they cast aspersions on other branches of the artes liberales and on philosophy too; they also demonstrated a deep knowledge of dialectic and a willingness to use it openly themselves. As if to tease their opponents, they placed their mastery of the subject—­a long with classical lit­er­a­ture and natu­ral philosophy—­f ront and center, showing familiarity with the same texts that the new schoolmen supposedly relied on too much.26 They w ­ ere e­ ager to demonstrate that they knew their Plato while their opponents knew l­ ittle of him except his name.27 “Look ­here, reader,” the critics seem to signal, “we w ­ ill oppose their views and fight them with their own weapons!” The audience recognized what they ­were ­doing and appreciated it: one con­temporary admirer approved of how Lanfranc, the teacher and archbishop, took ­every opportunity to treat the Pauline letters “according to the laws of dialectic.”28 The line drawn by Josef Anton Endres and his contemporaries to demarcate the dialecticians from their famous opponents no longer seems so clear.



Groups of Enthusiasts 51

The works of André Cantin, Wilfried Hartmann, Toivo Holopainen, Robert Ziomkowski, and ­others have greatly altered our perspective on the ­matter. We can see now that the critics w ­ ere interested not so much in attacking dialectic itself as in preserving an understanding that ­there existed in God’s works some aspects that would eternally elude the relentless force of logical conclusions.29 While proper logic could help man to understand nature, asking it to do more invited disappointment. When Peter Damian allowed himself to be entangled in a debate on the nature of divine omnipotence at the refectory of Montecassino Abbey in 1064, he relied on classic logical arguments. Can God go back in time and make it that Rome was never founded? Can he return a ­woman’s maidenhood “­after the fall” (post ruinam)?30 Can a ­t hing both exist and not exist at the same time? So worked up was Peter by the debate that he afterward wrote down his experiences in a letter that combined the usual polemic with careful and thoughtful detail. Even though he was very familiar with debates about necessity and impossibility, he introduced the notion of contradiction with ­g reat reservation.31 Knowledge of natu­ral philosophy, other­wise ridiculed, also helped him. Drawing from the works of Pliny and Augustine, he cited several paradoxical natu­ral phenomena to argue that in certain situations other­wise valid laws of nature could be ­v iolated.32 In a similar way, Manegold eagerly rattled off the many false ideas of pagan phi­los­o­phers about the nature of the soul. The sheer number alone seemed to undermine t­ hese ideas.33 ­Others, such as Lanfranc, increasingly utilized rhe­toric to strengthen their positions.34 The importance of the younger disciplines, especially dialectic, was not so easily dismissed by demonizing and railing against them, even if some tried to do so. Recent research has shown that authors of polemical lit­er­a­ ture during the Investiture Controversy employed dialectic extremely sparingly when it came to the central topic of the conflict—­royal and papal rights. They acted so carefully not for any lack of ability but b ­ ecause the use of dialectic in the context of such a serious conflict seemed excessive, like one side deciding to go nuclear. The writings of the so-­called anti-­dialecticians can be read quite differently when we consider how their polemic focused on the novel way of life and habitus of the ­free teachers, against their be­hav­ior, their ways of thinking, and the ways they ­were supposedly trying to redefine the roles of students and teachers. The vitriolic attacks on the popularity of logic from the 1060s on, which the critics saw as the cause of disturbing be­hav­ior, can be attributed to social, or rather sociocultural, c­ auses. Two par­tic­u­lar characteristics of

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the dialecticians fueled the polemic against them: their excessive faith in the rational systematization of new knowledge and their existence in­de­pen­dent of a place or a church.35 Again, we must strug­gle to determine what was true in the writings of the critics and what was invention or exaggeration. This challenge is familiar to medievalists who often have to interpret social innovations through the lens of their opponents.36 Let us, therefore, examine the attitudes and agenda of the critics more closely in order to assess their claims. Only then w ­ ill it be pos­si­ble to show how the new teachers and their knowledge formed part of a comprehensive revolution in con­temporary group culture. Even if ste­reo­t ypical dialecticians caused as much scandal though their habitus as through their knowledge, we should look a bit closer at their epistemic particularities. Dialecticians, so said their critics, evaluated statements using purely linguistic criteria that included a complex but thought-­out set of categories, tests, and conclusions. For logicians, this specialized knowledge seemed to offer a plausible approach to dealing with factual prob­lems as if they w ­ ere linguistic questions within a true-­or-­false system. This optimism riled up the critics, especially when it was applied to questions of faith, which was based largely on divine revelation.37 To inculcate this expertise, the dialecticians endorsed a vision of schooling and training dif­fer­ent from the arts program. Critics found it easy to interpret this alternative approach as taking away from the religiously motivated effort to understand scripture. They saw it as robbing the arts of their importance as preparatory study for discerning textual meaning. Dialectic was a difficult subject that was hard to pursue through part-­time study. Rather than just moving on, ­t hose who truly dedicated themselves to it felt driven to dive ever deeper into new challenges. Since dialecticians viewed their subject as a lifelong task rather than one discipline among ­others, they ­were especially prone to competition. Conflicts over opinions and between schools often occurred that undermined their consensus and commitment to common goals. Seen from the outside, the work of logicians seemed to amplify unpleasant characteristics such as self-­ centeredness, narrow-­mindedness, arrogance, antagonism, and factionalism. While ­t hese characteristics ­were sometimes attributed to individual be­ hav­ior, logicians seemed to be more at home in group life and thus more of a social phenomenon. By arguing only among themselves and by seeking validation of their efforts only from their peers, the logicians seemed in danger of losing sight of the bigger picture within the moral cosmos of the older edu-



Groups of Enthusiasts 53

cational world. The group nurtured its members in the erroneous belief that they ­were correct and tempted them to remain fixed on grammar and dialectic at the expense of Holy Scripture. According to Abbot Williram of Ebersberg, the logicians isolated themselves so thoroughly from ­t hose who studied scripture that they w ­ ere laughed at for it.38 Their many rivaling beliefs and dissenting sectae produced a surplus of opinions and positions. Critics alleged that Satan, the author of all schisms, caused this dissent just like he had caused it among the Socratics, Pythagoreans, Platonists, and countless other sects.39 Patristic texts had argued much the same, but in the pre­sent t­hese ste­reo­types w ­ ere readily apparent from critical observation alone. To understand this new way of life, it might help to consider in greater detail the informative criticism of an author who did not move among the leading intellectual circles. This critic, who expressed his deep convictions with focus and candor, was a conservative firebrand named Goswin (or Gozechin) who had made a name for himself as master of the Mainz cathedral school in the 1040s. Between 1066 and 1070, when he was prob­ably in his sixties, he sent a letter to his former student Walcher in Liège to secure his support for a tricky plan.40 Goswin, who had lived in Liège before being called to Mainz to teach by Archbishop Luitpold around 1058, wanted to leave ­after spending ten years t­ here and to return to his former home to live out his remaining days.41 Wanting to clear his path, he was concerned that some hateful verses he had written about Liège many years ago might pose an obstacle. He worried that some ­t here might still remember them, and he was especially ashamed that he had foolishly called Liège a “worthless [piece of] slag” (vilem . . . ​scoriam).42 Obviously, he had just been looking for a word to rhyme with gloriam and had accidentally struck the wrong tone. The situation was indeed complicated since he had left his post as cathedral chancellor ­t here mainly for c­ areer reasons. Goswin had to overcome ­great difficulties to have such a move approved. In no way was it appropriate for a master in his late sixties to suddenly change his mind and set up camp elsewhere. Was it not the very image of recklessness and delusion (Goz. 147, 181)? Critics and enemies stood ready at the flanks to attack his decision. How could he possibly justify it? What acceptable motives could be found for an old master to pack up and set out on a trip? His plan was complicated by the wandering teachers of recent years who had established their schools right ­under Goswin’s nose and earned his ire for it. In his view, the instability of t­ hese new pseudomasters and their

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misguided disciples was a sure sign of their ineptitude and intellectual rootlessness. Nothing good could be expected of them. Ironically, it was partially ­because of them that the grizzled old master felt pressure to justify his decision to move on. Goswin had to prove that such be­hav­ior in a master did not necessarily deserve rebuke, and that a change of location could even be necessary. He cited examples of g­ reat wandering spirits from pagan antiquity and referenced certain apostles who had cultivated an itinerant lifestyle. The rules of the church, he showed, allowed space for many ways of life (Goz. 301). Contemplation was not the only way to fight on behalf of the faith. Goswin forcefully defended his own teaching activity by heaping praise on traditional education and intimate schoolroom communication. In this way, he clearly separated himself from the activities of the intellectual newcomers. Cheers for the good old days! For the rod and the blow! For elementary instruction in the seven liberal arts and the total transformation of the student! Goswin identified with a school model where the class formed a closed social space. To be ­there meant to be happy, albeit not in the same way for student as for teacher.43 During their early days together in Liège, Goswin had beaten Walcher on the back in order to rid him of beginner’s m ­ istakes and youthful sins (Goz. 15). Long did Walcher cry beneath the rod (Goz. 37, cf. 620, 626, 954) before he at last ­adopted the habits of his master better than all of the other conscolares (Goz. 49). Through this grueling pro­cess, he became the favorite student, the crown prince of the classroom who was even allowed to stand in for the master on occasion (Goz. 66). In Goswin’s view, the effort had been worth it. The bond between them, ­whether in private or in the com­pany of o ­ thers, could not have been stronger (Goz. 57). How could I not love you, he reasoned, whose talent I recognized way back then and who has since matured into a young man wise beyond his years? Even though Goswin did not lack com­pany, none seemed superior to him than Walcher’s (Goz. 79). How dif­fer­ent w ­ ere the didactic practices of the pre­sent day! Although Goswin does not appear to have made direct contact with the new teaching, he still sensed its effects through his students. According to him, the new habits seemed to be inspired by a combination of material incentives, be­hav­iors, and teaching styles. Teachers fed on greed, which, like a poisoned root (Goz. 608, 616), drove them to restructure their lessons. Like entertainers, they went around the taverns peddling philosophy for money (Goz. 604). The old harmony between academic and moral growth was beginning to break down



Groups of Enthusiasts 55

only to be replaced with an unhealthy absence of morals and discipline. The convents felt the change as well. Older members set aside the rod and ceased trying to improve the younger ones (Goz. 618). The pre­sent conditions ­were similar to t­ hose described by Paul in his second letter to Timothy: students ­were seeking out teachers who “tickled their ears” (2 Timothy 4:3). What an upside-­down world (Goz. 630)! The new teaching focused on false questions and novelties, ones that ­were dangerous for students at an age when they—­ like malleable clay on the potter’s wheel—­needed to be ­shaped with discipline. They ­were becoming vessels not of fame, but of shame and distortion (Goz. 633). The schoolmen perpetuated their fallacies through their peripatetic lifestyle. A ­ fter imbibing a bit of this odd and wordy knowledge, they ran headlong into intellectual vagabondage. Few could even understand what they ­were saying (Goz. 635). Recognizing no moral code, they remained mostly among themselves—­what a terrible way to live (Goz. 637)! Th ­ ose who acquired some paltry education could become at best pseudomasters. Young and careless, t­ hese thrill seekers would wander around villages and cities throwing themselves into the most difficult books of the Bible and luring the next generation into their world (Goz. 649). Lying in wait for careless and curious spirits, they focused their attention on the most literal, corporeal understanding of textual meaning and engaged in beguiling disputation (Goz. 685). New questions emerged out of old ones in labyrinthine fashion. So strongly did they trust in the power of language, a mere ­human invention, that they left no space at all for godly ­matters. For this gloomy critic, the traveling teachers seemed to overturn the pedagogical institutions of the older schools. Goswin was bewildered by the entrepreneurial attitude of the teachers and by the expectations of the self-­confident students. Both provided fertile ground for vice and false confidence, and for ­people like the heretic-­scholar Berengar of Tours. ­Those who had known Berengar from e­arlier days remembered him as proud and reckless, as disdainful t­owards his schoolmates. He had not been able to grasp the material, so he crafted a new kind of knowledge with its own methodologies and be­hav­iors. He walked around pompously making gestures and would stick his head into his cowl in order to feign deep contemplation.44 The attention this new mode of education received in the de­cades ­after 1060 seems excessive when one reflects on how few wandering teachers ­t here ­really ­were in ­t hese early years. This apparent contradiction can be

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resolved by examining how observers attempted to classify the new magistri and their schools within the group culture of the day. Many other social groups, as we w ­ ill see, w ­ ere also beginning to or­ga­nize on the basis of voluntary association.

Living in Groups: Personal Needs and Collective Solutions The Apostles of Order and the Loss of Clear Categories Even if critics like Peter Damian drew on the patristic texts written against the pagan phi­los­o­phers to aid their polemic against the new schools, they recognized that their strug­gle was against a modern fashion born of the current zeitgeist.45 They believed that the bad habits in the current schools ­were rooted in the be­hav­ior of certain individuals who tied themselves to other new kinds of groups. We would do well to investigate where—­f rom a sociohistorical perspective—­t hese new group forms, the true targets of the critics, came from. We w ­ ill see how a broad movement ­toward community formation strongly influenced the late eleventh and twelfth centuries, and how it rendered obsolete the previous era’s dominant categories of social organ­i zation. Men and w ­ omen, clerics and monks, married ­people and lay ­people: members of all social categories found the movement infectious and pursued the opportunities of f­ree association made available in ­t hese de­ cades. Understanding t­hese diverse group structures better must be our next concern, especially ­because they ­were continuously enriched with new forms and ­were ­every bit as impor­tant for the “turning point” of the long twelfth c­ entury as was the new science itself. During the ­middle of the eleventh ­century, well before the foundation of the first universities, the new science became intertwined with the habits and thinking of social groups, f­ ree u ­ nions, and guilds.46 To shed light on group formation in this context, we must in the next few pages make a detour, or rather, attempt to slightly reframe the larger picture. We w ­ ill see that the young scholars of the late eleventh ­century, by dedicating their lives to the new knowledge, pursued a utopian model of community that both influenced con­temporary eremitic movements and, in turn, was energized by a paradoxical notion of communal isolation. The community of master and students was reshaped ­under ­these conditions into a space where piercing questions directed at scientific truth came to constitute the central object of intellectual and spiritual existence.



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­These new group forms first emerged among the convulsions of the so-­ called church reform movement. Born in the upheaval of the reforming efforts led by the popes soon a­ fter 1050, they took shape during the conflicts between Gregory VII and secular rulers (above all the Salian king Henry IV).47 Contemporaries found it difficult to appreciate the social forms emerging from ­t hese impulses ­because they did not seem to align with the categorical division of mankind into clergy, lay p ­ eople, and monks, which was a central tenet of the reform movement. At first glance, we ­will see that large numbers of ­people chose to band together primarily ­because the lifestyles of the new groups offered a way to meet their needs both in this life and in the next. ­There was growth in the quantity of such groups, but also in quality.48 Gregory VII’s plans to bring about a comprehensive “clericalization of the Church” and to subordinate the ordo laicorum beneath the clergy did not have the intended effect on t­ hese groups, nor did his goal to restrict preaching to the clergy and to divide the clerical ecclesia docens from the lay ecclesia discens.49 The model these new groups followed was the early apostolic community as described in the book of Acts, when the Christians in Jerusalem “had every­t hing in common” (Acts 2:44, 4:32). ­People everywhere began to gather into guilds and fraternities seeking holiness and a better life in the pre­sent. It did not m ­ atter if they w ­ ere men and ­women or if they belonged to the episcopal cities, the countryside, or the Benedictine monasteries. In the villages of Swabia, sons and d ­ aughters of peasants resolved to “continuously exceed each other in the holiness of their morals,” which soon became contagious. Amazed onlookers recorded how entire villages fell ­under the influence of this movement. Before their very eyes, the communis vita came “into bloom in many places,” wrote the chronicler Bernold of St. Blasien in 1091. Humbly did lay ­people attach themselves to congregations of clerics and monks, wishing to live together “according to the model of the early Church.” They would then adopt a rule and live their entire lives “in obedience to the clerics or monks.”50 Where a few gathered, more came ­because such ­people w ­ ere said “to push many to follow them.”51 Monks and lay ­people who longed to dedicate their lives to the imitatio Christi, or who wished to pursue an eremitic existence in the wastelands, forests, and mountains, also increasingly began to gather into groups of hermits. This “new” eremitic movement was distinct from both monasticism and from traditional forms of eremitic life. As Henrietta Leyser and o ­ thers have shown, a combination of both solitude and group life was integral to ­t hese communities in the early years.52 One example was the emerging fraternities

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of lay ­people who established their own statutes and elected their own officers. The members of ­t hese associations, gathered from the same region by pious impulses and worldly aims, would eat together, celebrate together, and or­ga­nize care for the needy, memorials for the dead, and funeral ser­vices within their community. Many of their statutes survive from ­England and from places such as Valenciennes, Saint-­Omer, and Modena. In Tiel on the Lower Rhine, the merchants very early—­around 1020 or so—­were accused of forming a guild to protect their interests and of operating according to regulations they established for themselves. According to the monk Alpert of Metz, they lived not according to the law, but according to their own stubborn w ­ ill (non secundum legem sed secundum voluntatem).53 He was more or less correct. The statutory rules established by the guilds claimed no transcendent origin and held force only as “positive,” man-­made norms. They existed only through the practice of “­free association” and can be considered “total social facts” (Marcel Mauss) in that they served both the spiritual needs and mercantile interests of the members.54 Communal forms can be sensed as early as the sixth c­ entury and become clearer during the Carolingian period. But only in the era of church reform did they see ­great expansion.55 Members utilized a large lexical field to express the character of group life, including words such as collegium, consortium, societas, and corpus for the group itself. For common meals and charitable activities, they used convivium, agape, caritas, and fraternitas. But this existing vocabulary was deemed insufficient. New words were crafted, and so we hear of fraterna, confraternitas, and confratria, of fraglia, confraglia, and confrairie (or confrérie) in the non-­Latin vernacular, and Latin neologisms such as gilda or gildonia.56 The associations that made the biggest splash ­were the urban communes whose citizens aggressively extended guild-­style rule to entire cities and asserted it against the re­sis­tance of local lords. The cities of Latin Eu­rope assumed their defining historical characteristics in this era, organ­izing as municipalities, as citizens’ associations, as sworn u ­ nions at least partially autonomous and autocephalous, and as recognized territorial entities.57 This “communal movement” formed but one part of a far broader trend t­ oward the voluntary formation of social groups. One inadvertent ­factor that helped to unleash ­these pro­cesses was the passionate fight of reformers against the purchase of ecclesiastical office (simony), clerical marriage (Nicolaitism), and the right of lay members to appoint clerics (investiture). But this b ­ attle for correct order in the world— an unrealistic vision both magnificent and naive (Gerd Tellenbach)—­was not



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the direct cause.58 In truth, the reform movement produced competing impulses that interacted with and influenced each other. While it strengthened social categories and fixed ­people into given roles and expectations, it also opened up new modes of life for individuals to pursue. The dialogical relationship between ­t hese opposing forces—­categorization and decategorization, unity and difference—­produced constant tension.59 Historical accounts of the reform movement have often focused on a trend ­toward categorization, emphasizing the rationalizing effects of the “Investiture Controversy” and the “Gregorian Reform.” One l­egal historian went so far as to call it the “first Eu­ro­pean revolution.” 60 A strict distinction between the clergy and laity did, in fact, sit at the heart of the reformers’ opposition to simony, clerical marriage, and lay investiture. The idea was old, but they promoted it again with new intensity and developed institutions and ideologies to enforce it. They advocated for a division into estates, for the regulation of hierarchy by enforcing social relationships though ­legal norms, for a tripartite division of p ­ eople into t­ hose who fight, pray, and work, and for the church to assert its own law.61 From Leo IX (r. 1049–54) on, the popes, who ­were once seen in most parts of Eu­rope as “exalted figure[s], almost . . . ​ figure[s] of legend,” began to claim with increasing success to be the ultimate arbiters of ambiguous cases.62 Several institutions in their orbit helped not only to establish new norms, but also to enforce them. The Roman curia developed into an administrative center while popes made their w ­ ill felt by traveling around, through their legates, and by excommunication, which they ­shaped into a ­legal disciplinary tool. For the many years between 922 and 1059, older cata­logs rec­ord only sixteen diocesan synods being held in Germany. In France between 888 and 987, t­ here ­were twenty-­seven, and none at all in places such as Dol, Embrun, Auch, Rouen, and Tarentaise.63 But every­ thing began to change as bishops had to cede their leading role in diocesan affairs in the face of papal intervention. Leo IX alone spent twenty months of his pontificate north of the Alps and much time in southern Italy. The rest he spent in equal shares in Rome and in northern and central Italy. His successor, Victor II (r. 1055–57) also spent more than a year in Germany.64 The entire era was characterized by the tightening of hierarchies as p ­ eople came to be understood and defined by superior and inferior relationships. Indeed, of all the social consequences of the Gregorian Reform, the princi­ ple of hierarchy was prob­ably the leading one.65 Both sides in the conflict between Pope Gregory VII and his opponents employed more or less the same texts and adhered to the same norms. Although

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this situation irritated some, it did not weaken the tendency t­ oward standardizing and generalizing positions since polemicists felt the need to introduce arguments that w ­ ere binding for the other side as well. Research on the Libelli de lite has made clear that, especially from the late 1070s on, the conflict became even more rational and intellectually demanding. Richard Southern has described the heightened level of learned debate, which would be maintained and cultivated through scholastic science, as a precursor to the modern politicized public sphere.66 The trend of intellectualizing questions and conflicts was not confined to a few polemicists. Bishops who wanted to keep pace with theological discussion at synodal gatherings needed e­ ither profound knowledge or competent advisers lest they become perplexed and humiliated.67 To understand what Bernold of St. Blasien or Alger of Liège ­were propounding about excommunication in the late eleventh c­ entury required engaging with their learned perspectives and grasping something of the textual hermeneutics and argumentation that they employed.68 It was not enough to simply call on authoritative passages since both parties in the conflict employed more or less the same texts, norms, and values. Strong individual beliefs, however, as well as customs (consuetudines), could deviate from the truth. Indeed, only a mind with the courage to break away from the familiar could shift perspective enough to gain true insight. As Tertullian, Cyprian, and Augustine had emphasized in one way or another, Christ did not say “I am the custom,” but “I am the truth.” This poignant remark took on new force in the form of interlocutors who sought to eliminate all ambiguities. Through their texts, they cultivated a new field of knowledge and an intellectual culture whose highest value was the pursuit of truth.69 From this perspective far beyond the schools, we can begin to understand why masters w ­ ere showing new and rejuvenated interest ­toward the old subjects of dialectic and rhe­toric. Not only was the terminology of the debate refined; it was also applied to larger and larger collectives. The conflict over lay investiture was fi­nally solved by a categorical division between ecclesiastical and secular laws, and between iura spiritualia and iura imperialia.70 ­These divisions ­were groundbreaking at the time, but even a few generations l­ater ­people w ­ ere already describing them as known since the time of Christ’s incarnation.71 ­People soon spoke not only of “popes,” but also of the “papacy” (papatus); not just of bishops, but of the episcopal office (pontificatus); not just of the rights and liberties of a church, but of the church’s liberty in general (libertas ecclesiae).72 In the old



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days, one could “reform” a single church or a convent, but not monasticism itself. One could reform the rules of, say, the Arezzo cathedral chapter, but not episcopal churches as a w ­ hole. H ­ ere too begins to emerge the radical idea that Christendom as a ­whole needed a reformatio and that the church (by its nature) always needed renewal.73 This trend t­ oward hierarchy and category—­and its legalization—­concerns us not so much for its impact on clerics as agents of education and higher knowledge, but for the unavoidable pressure it exerted on individuals, causing some to adjust but ­others to fiercely resist. In this way, it eroded the very categories that reform sought to strengthen; it produced a countervailing trend of decategorizing social roles and behavioral norms. Not all monks and lay p ­ eople w ­ ere receptive to the idea that preaching and administering the sacraments should be reserved to the clergy alone. They did not like the idea that clerics held salvation in their hands and that radical and obnoxious reformers w ­ ere the only ones allowed to have opinions on how to live properly and achieve holiness. By trying to subordinate lay p ­ eople to the clergy, church reformers prob­ably actually undermined the authority of the clergy. The diocesan faithful w ­ ere also unsettled by the polemic against simoniac and unchaste clergy, and by the experience of schisms in Rome during which many bishops supported Henry IV and the antipopes he appointed. And since schism was considered heresy, compromise was usually ruled out.74 What should one think when mighty bishoprics like Milan switched sides from emperor to pope? Or when abbeys such as Cluny and Montecassino could not tell who their legitimate abbot was anymore? Or the unpre­ce­dented scandal of an abbot suffering a miserable death in prison?75 Lay ­people from both h ­ umble and noble backgrounds knew well that they ­were supposed to fight to eliminate the presence of simony and Nicolaitism in their communities. ­Here again, the subordination of the laity to the clergy was subverted by the same pro­cesses that ­were supposed to enforce it. ­People tried to force local clerics who lived with their wives out of their canonries or have them excommunicated. But when ­t hese priests continued to celebrate the mass “freely” (libere) and “hold on to their wives” (retenta etiam uxore), ­t hese efforts seemed to do ­little to clear up the confusion in the world.76 They made it worse and better at the same time. Concrete events and places bear witness to the crisis of ecclesiastical authority. In 1076/77, a scandal arose in Cambrai surrounding the priest Ramihrdus, who had died u ­ nder suspicious circumstances. This incident illustrates well how social groups emerged and acquired power amid the tension of

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con­temporary categorization and decategorization. Tellingly, the roles of simoniac and heretic ­were played by dif­fer­ent ­people ­here. Another impor­tant role was played by the men and w ­ omen of the village, who searched their souls and proved willing to continue their peculiar pious practices and religious instruction under­ground if necessary. Ramihrdus had been preaching in the countryside, which earned him a loyal following of students both male and female. Our source calls them a secta, a term without negative connotations, but they still came to the attention of Bishop Gerard II of Cambrai. What did Ramihrdus preach and believe? An investigation arranged by the bishop turned up nothing incriminating, but he was nevertheless pressured to take the eucharist as a sign of orthodoxy. The m ­ atter became a scandal at this exact moment as Ramihrdus refused to receive the host from the abbots and priests. He said that since they w ­ ere likely simoniacs, or at the very least greedy, he could not accept the sacrament from them. The harmless inquiry quickly turned into a heresy trial, and since the bishop’s men knew of his following, they declared Ramihrdus to be not just a heretic but a heresiarch, a teacher of heretics. He was promptly dragged to a small hut where, laying prostrate on the ground in prayer, he was burned to death. Ramihrdus’s secta was not ended so easily, however, and seems to have remained active in secret for many de­cades. The chronicler of the event, an anonymous monk of St. Andrew in Cambrai, reported nearly sixty years ­after Ramihrdus’s death that his teaching lived on in the villages.77 Pope Gregory, to whom the case was reported, was shocked by it. Had they ­really burnt someone alive for saying that sacraments should not be received from simoniacs? Bishop Gerard was excommunicated, and only with g­ reat effort was he able to regain his office.78 This crisis of authority in the hierocratic church of Cambrai, which reached its peak during the judicial crisis of early 1077, prob­ably contributed to the establishment of a citizens’ confederacy (coniuratio) not long afterward. As best we can tell, the residents of the city, which was ruled by the bishop, planned among themselves in secret for a while and then suddenly emerged at the vanguard of a new movement that would sweep across northern France.79 Calling on military aid, the bishop of Cambrai managed to subdue this profanam communiam. But where t­ here was fighting, categories and ­battle lines tended to become confused. When the commune of Laon also ­rose in revolt several years l­ater, the episcopal vicedominus Ado, spear in hand, was forced to carve a way out of the city for himself and his wife. Ado



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commanded one of his servants to use his shield to cover their rear but did not realize that the man, a longtime retainer who had recently attended him at t­ able, was actually a member and leader of the rebels.80 Critics of the communes found such dissolution of categories and roles to be especially heinous. Personal Decisions, Collective Consequences: Groups of Hermits The decategorization caused by reformers as they fussed over social bound­ aries helped to foster new group cultures. In the years ­after 1050, the group forms criticized by the anti-­dialecticians suddenly began to appear all over the place. This development was enabled by the personal decisions of ­people such as Ramihrdus’s followers, the members of lay fraternities and hermit communities, and the citizens of Cambrai, Laon, Mons, Saint-­Quentin, Beauvais, Noyon, Amiens, and Valenciennes who ­were so ­eager to unite. To begin our inquiry, we should ask how their individual decisions and actions correlated with larger social consequences. The Monodiae of Guibert of Nogent can help us once again. In the first book of his autobiography, our sensible self-­explorer sought to explain the circumstances that had led him and his ­mother to take monastic vows. In the pro­cess, he felt obliged to speak at length about the con­temporary zeitgeist around 1070. Within the narrative structure of the Monodiae, this digression allows the author to rationalize his life story and to embed it within larger contexts.81 Guibert, who possessed a sharp sense of the changing atmosphere of his day, sought to understand why interest in monastic life had begun to rise during the time of his youth.82 He begins by explaining how the ­great older convents had fallen into a state of disrepair around the time of his birth. Few new ­people w ­ ere taking vows, which left only the former oblates with ­little experience of the outside world or its sins to lead them. What did they know of the need for penance, which was supposed to incite monks and govern life in the convent? What motivation could they have to follow the Benedictine commandment to manual l­ abor? Then came suddenly the new hermits, t­ hose model men who went to live in the wasteland. According to Guibert, “crowds of men and ­women immediately joined them, from ­every rank of society.”83 Guibert had mixed feelings about this eremitic mass movement, but he clearly saw it as inferior to monastic life. For him, the wandering existence of the religiously fervent should be praised only if it was chosen for the right

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reasons and eventually led to an orderly, regulated life in a monastery; it had to translate into obedience to a rule and to stabilitas loci. Wherever ­free w ­ ill ruled unchecked, morals went astray. Guibert knew from experience—he himself had tried out many ­things and de­cided only late on the correct move. He also prob­ably borrowed this idea from Augustine’s Confessions. For such actions to be truly commendable, they needed to be done with careful consideration of their potential social implications and consequences. ­After all, personal decisions are always made in groups and have consequences for ­t hose groups.84 To illustrate ­t hese points, Guibert narrated a series of three biographical accounts in which the protagonists first a­ dopted an eremitic existence and only ­later accepted a monastic lifestyle. Guibert arranged them chronologically, which gave the appearance that this biographical pattern was becoming more acceptable and less problematic with the passage of time. The first and most hazardous of the three cases ­will be helpful for our purposes.85 The first case recounts the conversion of Count Everard of Breteuil to a monastic life around 1073. Through it, Guibert showed how the new hermits could send the wrong message. The young count seems to have realized that if he dared to just walk off into the wilderness, it would impact o ­ thers, especially his most vulnerable subjects. For this reason, Pope Gregory VII tried a few years later in 1079 to discourage princes from entering convents. And Everard’s plan was far more radical than that: he wanted to become a hermit.86 To avoid trou­ble, he prepared in secret with “his own,” a small group of local men, and moved to the wilderness in a nighttime operation. Following the model of the recently deceased Theobald of Provins, who had been canonized by Pope Alexander II (r. 1061–73), they became charcoal makers.87 Everard de­cided personally who would accompany him, and they fed themselves by selling the coal that they produced in the forest. When they traveled the countryside, they did so incognito. When Everard s­ topped in a village one day, he met a young man with a reddish-­purple cloak, silk leggings cut off at the bottom, and hair like a ­woman’s that fell onto his shoulders.88 This figure was difficult to place; he seemed closer to a lascivious youth (amasius) than a hermit.89 Everard marveled at his overly affected gestures, how he rolled his eyes and arched his eyebrows, and his lack of shame and contrived hesitation. When he asked the young man who he was, he received a shocking answer: “I beg you not to tell anyone, but I am Everard. I used to be count of Breteuil, and I was once rich in France, as you know. I sent myself into exile to do voluntary atonement



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for my sins.” 90 Our protagonist, who moved about the countryside as a coal maker, was standing before himself, or rather some effeminate dandy pretending to be him. This experience allowed Everard to view his decision to adopt an eremitic lifestyle in a new light. When a person of high standing like him chose this path, he took responsibility for imposters like this out-­of-­line young man leading a loose life as a pseudo-­a nchorite and enjoying luxuries obtained through an artificial biography.91 Everard prob­ably anticipated something of the sort, which explains why he tried to burn the bridges to his past life so completely. We should not assign too much importance to an individual case no ­matter how evocative it is. Still, this story’s relevance is clear when it is viewed in the context of the research on the “new” eremitism and the wandering preachers mentioned above. The decision to move away came from individuals, but executing it was a group affair. The hermits in Guibert’s other stories acted much the same. ­These eremitic communities ­were sustained by new and positive ideals that ­shaped their inner life, and their reputation depended on the social status of their founder. Social status was always con­spic­u­ous, and even more so when an individual denied it through an act of religious conversio. Becoming a hermit of the new kind meant deciding against the monastic life while also not accepting a totally solitary lifestyle. But t­ here w ­ ere also other alternatives to monastic obedience, to stabilitas loci, and to the regulated rule. Impor­tant, as we w ­ ill see, w ­ ere t­ hose groups that followed the model and precepts of a charismatic teacher. Master and Student: A Utopian Proj­ect It has been necessary to linger with t­ hese nonacademic groups before returning to our main topic, the schools. As Jan Ziolkowski has noted, the new communities of hermits, which have received a ­great deal of scholarly attention, have much more in common with the groups of dialectic enthusiasts than one might assume at first glance. Most historians, influenced by the accounts of contemporaries who ­were troubled that so many monks and clerics ­were joining t­ hese groups, have tended to assess the merits of ­these eremitic outcasts negatively in comparison to monks and canons regular. The new student-­teacher communities and hermit groups are actually better understood within the historical context of eleventh-­century group formation. Pre­ sent in all new groups of the age was a utopian desire to achieve orga­nizational

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simplicity, unity, and integrity. By following the model of an exemplary magister, members of t­ hese groups ­were provided with both form and structure. Even con­temporary fraternities often elected a magister from among their most highly regarded and learned members, and all ­were urged to obey him in each and e­ very m ­ atter.92 ­These ideals inherited much from the monastic and cathedral schools where teachers served both as con­vey­ors of knowledge and as comprehensive role models. The new groups, however, w ­ ere not bound to a religious ­house, and a utopian idea prevailed among them that saw group life ­under a master as an end in itself. A vision of community formed the basis of this new culture that, as we saw, arose amid the demands of church reform and especially the conflicts it sparked. This vision idealized the relationship between the teacher and his students and used it as a model to improve the lives of all group members. Th ­ ese communities w ­ ere guided by the model of a perfect person, the teacher, who embodied a consummate lifestyle.93 While the eremitic communities followed this group ideal most explic­ itly, other models and impulses w ­ ere pre­sent too. We have already seen, for example, how they ­were motived by the reformers’ attacks on simony and clerical marriage. Scholars for a long time have also paid disproportionate attention to ­great individual “wandering preachers” such as Robert of Arbrissel (d. 1116), Bernard of Thiron (d. 1116), Vitalis of Savigny (d. 1122), Gerald of Salles (d. 1120), and Norbert of Xanten (d. 1134), the founder the Premonstratensian Order of canons regular.94 While t­ here is consensus in this branch of research that the new phenomenon began in the eleventh c­ entury, this fixation on prominent individuals has caused interpretive overreliance on certain biographies that first appeared de­cades l­ater in the era of Bernard of Clairvaux. The work of the Oxford historian Henrietta Leyser in the 1980s revolutionized our understanding of the subject and inspired much new research.95 Helpfully, she identified several characteristics that we now use to distinguish the “new” forms of eremitism from e­ arlier movements. Unlike the older hermits, recluses, and anchorites, who sought to escape from the world as individuals, t­ hese “new” hermits desired to live in groups.96 ­These communities w ­ ere not the passing crowds that once gathered around preaching holy men, but stable bodies of like-­minded ­people who formed a community for a significant amount of time. Far from rejecting the social renewal of the con­temporary communal movement, they took part in it. Jean Leclercq was correct when he noted that few con­temporary lifestyles went undisrupted



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by the model of the “new” hermits.97 The impulses that led ­people to join ­these groups ­were also understood in a more positive light than before. They sought to break ­free from existing social contexts, to reject monastic rules and habits, and to forsake life as a count, villa­ger, peasant, or city person, but they ­were not social exiles. As Gert Melville put it, they ­were driven to pursue a “new understanding of Christian community and individual perfectio.” 98 Entirely invested in social life, they had more in common with the communards than social outcasts. The sheer scale of this movement astounded contemporaries, but the groups themselves ­were usually small. In place of a rule, they followed the model of a leader, a magister.99 The enormous hardship of life in the wilderness usually ­limited the length of their hermitage, and most eventually came to prefer the life of a monk or a regular canon with a roof over their head and a reliable meal on the t­ able. Cécile Caby has rightly identified the enormous difficulty of eremitic life as the root cause of a tendency t­ oward “regularisation de l’érémitisme irregulier.” Being a hermit was a biographical option for many, but it usually was only a phase. It was a path to spiritual success, but its realization ideally required abandoning it for a regulated life.100 The hermit leaders ­were revered throughout their regions for how they seemed to have boldly withdrawn from all the complications of life. Their marginal position, according to Leyser, empowered them to overcome “the common trou­bles of mankind” in a similar way to Peter Brown’s late antique “holy man.” The hermit was seen as “the b ­ earer of objectivity in society.” Norbert of Xanten, for example, was often called on as a mediator during the time of his hermitage in the diocese of Cambrai.101 ­These grimy figures must have instilled in onlookers a certain fear, especially when they appeared in groups. The ­people around Bernard of Thiron seemed to resemble the sheep whose wool had been used to make their poor, raggedy clothes rather than ­actual men. The residents of the region ­were terrified of them, believing that they faced Saracens who had traveled beneath the earth (hence the filth) on a reconnaissance mission. Only when Bernard began preaching about penance did they redirect their fear in a proper direction. They converted and submitted themselves to Bernard’s teaching (magisterio illius sese submittebant).102 Observers naturally discussed the pros and cons of t­ hese numerous and con­spic­u­ous groups. Ivo of Chartres, writing to a monk and member named Rainald, described their isolated and hidden lifestyle as more of a spectacle than any real advantage. Rainald countered this criticism twice, first in a letter

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intended to demonstrate that the lifestyle was compatible with the gospel, and l­ater in an epic assault on the aspects of monastic life that had caused him ­great suffering. He lamented the banality of the monkish routine, the constant chattering about food, drink, and pittance, the grumbling about the frugal abbot and his officials, the scavenging around for outside news, the gossip about ­battles, and the rest of the incessant prattle and nonsense.103 Ivo had made an effort to explain his point of view and to emphasize that he was not unduly biased against the anchoritic lifestyle.104 But he still admonished monks who chose the hermit’s path. He claimed that many dangerous autodidacts—­similar to Everard of Breteuil’s enigmatic doppelgänger—­were walking around claiming to be masters even though they had never been students themselves (ambiunt fieri magistri qui nunquam fuerunt discipuli). Since they ­were not true teachers, they benefited no one (quia non sunt quod ipsi sunt). In short, they w ­ ere neither hermits nor cenobites, but vagabonds (gyrovagos aut Sarabaitas).105 The new eremitic movement was apparently so attractive that Ivo had to think up even more to write against it. He charged that they pursued a utopian vision of total equality; all members w ­ ere driven by the same values and carried out the same tasks for the same purpose. They must have read something similar in Acts, so he guessed. The stupendous simplicity of their vision, he reasoned, fascinated contemporaries and caused misperception by the ecclesia. Citing Paul’s letters, Ivo argued for internal differentiation within the church and functional distinctions within the convent. The newcomers erred by wishing to reduce the corpus Christi into a single rank. They did not consider that God gave to e­ very person a special talent and that in the h ­ ouse of God ­t here ­were vari­ous functions rather than a single one. The worthiest should not claim to be above the rest of the Christian body or attempt to set themselves apart from the ­others. ­Those who claimed that God’s church belonged only to a few recluses worked against the comprehensive ­whole of Christ’s body (universitatem . . . ​corporis Christi). Monastic apologies, including ­t hose that tried to reconcile the monastic and eremitic lifestyles, often recalled this message. Only in their diversity and interrelatedness did abbeys, hermitages, and collegiate churches fulfill their purposes. A French treatise of the twelfth ­century, for example, described the vari­ous ecclesiastical communities according to their complexity, beginning with hermits and then covering monks and canons. In the pro­cess, it made a plea for diversity and distinction: love in ­others what you yourself do not



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have, and ­others ­will do the same. Do not be troubled by variety and by how some p ­ eople or­ga­nize their lives differently than o ­ thers. One may live alone while another lives with two, three, or more. What comes easy to one may be difficult to another. If someone wants to change from one way of life to another, why not?106 The treatise, written by an anonymous canon, advised readers to treat diversity as a form of enrichment rather than a threat. This message was directed above all at the hermits since they seemed most at risk of viewing their way of life as the only path to salvation. The new communities of this utopian moment saw g­ reat promise in living in ­simple groups among like-­minded souls. They oriented themselves not around a text, but around a living master whose charismatic model provided them with clear guidance. They sought to avoid the daily routines of the monks, preferring to be with one heart and one soul, following the exclusive model of Jesus, the disciples, and the early Christian community. In this way, the hermits positioned their utopian simplicity in direct opposition to life’s complexities.107 During the twelfth c­ entury, t­ hese new communities of thought and action came to be described using the late antique idea of the schola as a group of p ­ eople who worked t­oward a common goal in ser­v ice to a leader.108 The word schola thus came to carry two meanings in Abelard’s era. The first, more literal sense described forms of education and upbringing while the second, more emphatic sense referred to the utopian dimensions of comprehensive communal life. The first sense enabled one to make fairly unproblematic connections between the new schools and the older schools of abbeys and cathedrals.109 The second sense, however, made it seem as if the two ­were in competition. While the abbey was supposed to be a schola Christi, the word scholasticus and related concepts came to be associated only with the new schools, which seemed opposed to monasticism. The jurist Pillius reported at the end of the twelfth ­century that in the colloquial language of his home region the words consortium and schola ­were being used in place of the technical and all-­encompassing terms universitas, collegium, and corpus.110 Gert Melville has shown how the vita of the hermit Stephen of Obazine (d. a­ fter 1050) incorporates a utopian model of student-­teacher relations exactly the opposite of the charismatic supervision and dead faith associated with the “established” order of the convent. The teacher’s words work within the schoolroom “like a burning fire which enflames the souls of the listeners and intoxicates them with such love that . . . ​t he very state of their lives and habits are changed. His outer appearance, his demeanor, and every­t hing he

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does is like a sermon with no other purpose except to show ­others how to order their lives and to discipline their habits and actions.” Observers of this unique community saw it as “no surprise that such a master drew around him the kind students who could learn even if he never spoke a word to them.”111 The “instructions of the master” stood in place of a rule written on parchment. “They cared not at all for the pharisaic traditions.”112 ­Shaped by the example of their master, the students flourished during Stephen’s eremitic phase. But the anonymous author of the vita is sensitive to how Stephen’s role as a leader changed when he became a monk. He relies less on his charisma and more on the rules of the order into which he integrated his twin congregations of men and ­women.113 Teachers blessed with charisma, it seems, could exercise it only in phases. Correct teaching guaranteed a correct life, and not just in the e­ arlier sense of Stephen Jaeger’s model teachers at ecclesiastical schools. It also applied, as we have seen, to the (ideally) enduring eremitic communities or­ga­nized around a unifying goal. This model can easily be transferred to the new science; to efforts directed at difficult but promising texts rather than asceticism and escapism. Disciplina, the keystone for eremitic groups such as Stephen of Obazine’s, would also be applied to newer academic groups with only slight changes in semantic content. The term described their unreserved dedication to scientific topics, to their reference texts, and to the logical tools necessary to achieve understanding. The following chapter w ­ ill explain how discipline manifested in school life, but at first only in a narrow scholarly sense.

CHAPTER 4

The Re­nais­sance of Scientific Thought and Knowledge (c. 1070–1115) Learned Knowledge Becomes Willful Teaching as a Way of Life: William of Champeaux around 1111

In the meantime, I am in Paris in the school of master William, the greatest man known to me in the current generation who teaches in all of the arts. When we hear his voice, we do not believe that a man is speaking but an angel come down from heaven. Both the sweetness of his words and the depth of his sentences seem to exceed ­human standards.1

The unknown scholar who wrote this letter was making a journey, like many ­others before and a­ fter him, to the schools of western Eu­rope. On the road for some time already, he had nearly exhausted his funds. In order to secure more money, he de­cided to strike up contact with his prior back home ­after what seems to have been a very long period of silence. The student mentioned how Master William, the archdeacon of Paris, who was nearly the second man in the kingdom of France, had left b ­ ehind all his possessions the previous Easter in order to take up residence at an “exceedingly poor ­little church” to serve God. Like master Manegold of blessed memory, he served all who came t­ here “without charging any fees and for God’s sake alone.” Presently, the student writes, he was leading a school of divine and h ­ uman knowledge “the likes of which I have neither seen nor heard anywhere in the world during my time.” The man of whom this anonymous student spoke was William of Champeaux, the archdeacon of Notre Dame cathedral in Paris since 1106 and one

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of the most famous scholars of his era.2 In 1108, he had relinquished certain rights connected to his archdeaconry and followed up with a formal letter of resignation that he styled as a renouncement of his administrative c­ areer.3 ­Later, prob­ably in 1111, he then relocated from the cathedral, which lay on the Île de la Cité, to the left bank of the Seine.4 ­There, a few hundred meters away on the road to Corbeil and Melun, near the base of the hill of Sainte-­Geneviève, he came upon an “old cell” (cella vetus) that was consecrated to St. Victor and had already hosted hermits and recluses in the past.5 ­There, the letter writer recounted, William began to teach both spiritual and worldly sciences. Our student-­narrator was particularly concerned not to raise any suspicion that he was learning some false form of knowledge. His purpose, ­after all, was to convince the addressee, who was prob­ably Egilbert, the cathedral provost of Bamberg, that granting him financial aid was a useful investment since he was using the opportunity to acquire the right kind of knowledge. Totally in keeping with ­later student letters, he alluded several times to his pressing poverty, emphasizing the hardship of the foreign regions where he had been forced to go to find the best lessons. He had been away for a long time, so he said, and although he was still young and thus susceptible to all kinds of temptations, his intentions w ­ ere irreproachable.6 Following the instructions of the prior, he had turned first to the “lord bishop” (prob­ably Otto I of Bamberg) for help at a gathering in Worms during the previous year but had been unsuccessful. The funds given ­earlier by the prior, which had been welcomed “more for the affection of the sender than for the size of the gift,” no longer sufficed. It was high time, the author hints, to send him some supplies.7 This letter is impor­tant and revealing, offering us clues as to how higher knowledge gradually transformed into a willful kind of science able to set its own standards and aims in order to promote and advance its own interests. This description of William’s school also comes at a decisive moment: the months just before the royal endowment of St. Victor’s chapel in 1113 and just before the establishment of the collegiate church for regular canons ­t here.8 Three features of William’s foundation are emphasized in the account. First, he and his students left ­behind a well-­established school in order to pursue lessons according to the requirements of eremitic life. Second, he rejected the entrepreneurial school model (as had his own teacher Manegold) in order to offer his knowledge at no cost to all who came. And third, by coming to the chapel of St. Victor, he signaled that he was foregoing a conventional c­ areer in order to commit himself entirely and permanently to the task of teaching. Unlike the e­ arlier biographical narratives where the quest for a school served



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merely as the starting point for ­later religious fulfillment or a clerical path, this account emphasizes how William gave up his ­career—or at least avoided it—in order to follow his dreams. One could now dedicate his entire life to study with the goal of enriching and improving higher scientific knowledge. William’s con­temporary Anselm, who taught theology in Laon, did exactly that. According to a l­ ater account, he excused himself from the normal ­career path by claiming to be the son of a deacon, a stain that prevented him from holding an ecclesiastical office and thus allowed him to focus entirely on the study of Holy Scripture.9 William’s new school turned out to be only a brief venture as he was soon named a bishop and his attention focused elsewhere. But this end could not have been foreseen when he had initiated his plans at St. Victor two years ­earlier. We should try to reconstruct this time as thoroughly as pos­si­ble. ­Because St. Victor became an influential h ­ ouse of canons regular only a few years l­ater and then experienced even greater academic renown u ­ nder Hugh of St. Victor, ­later observers tried to attribute its early success to William.10 According to them, he withdrew from the cathedral with the intent to establish a religious h ­ ouse, and he was motivated by the con­temporary trend of providing secular canons with a rule. But this perspective is prob­ ably not correct. It glosses over many inconsistencies that become clear upon closer inspection. Quite famous t­ oday are the malicious comments made about William by his most prominent student, Peter Abelard, in his autobiographical Historia calamitatum, written some twenty years l­ ater. According to Abelard, William did not leave the cathedral seeking to abandon a church ­career but to advance it. He wanted to appear “more pious” and, in this way, to make himself an appealing candidate for higher ecclesiastical office.11 Obviously, this assessment was made ex post facto and for an audience that would have known that William had been appointed bishop of Châlons around 1113 and had accepted that po­liti­cally exposed position.12 Abelard’s account also concealed other purposes and sensitivities that say more about the student than the teacher. By setting up William as his opposite, he established a narrative origin point for his own calamities. His conflicts with his teacher and his teacher’s leading students initiated a sequence of trou­bles that continued up to the pre­sent day, or so it seemed to him in hindsight.13 Abelard also favored the monastic life over normal church c­ areers, which explains why he thought William’s choice to establish a church for regular canons was uninspired.14 And fi­nally, he failed to mention that this early teacher of his, unlike the opponents he faced

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l­ater, had never once wielded his institutional authority to silence him. It is probably no coincidence that it was in 1121, the very year in which William passed away, that ecclesiastical institutions began to turn against Abelard. Beyond Abelard’s doubtful testimony, we should also consider the fact that neither the abbey of St. Victor nor its most prominent members assigned William a significant place in their memory. He does not appear at all in the abbey’s chronicle from the 1180s, which places its foundation in 1114 and mentions William’s successor Gilduin only briefly before moving on to the brilliant canon Hugh.15 Hugh performed a ­great ser­v ice for the young abbey by procuring the relics of St. Victor and then went on to become the most impor­ tant teacher in its history.16 In Hugh’s vast and learned oeuvre too, we find no mention at all of his pre­de­ces­sor William.17 William does appear in the calendar of the abbey, but only as an ordinary ­brother. “On this day [January 25],” it reads, “is the anniversary of master William, bishop of Châlons and our canon.”18 By comparison, the entry for William’s immediate successor, Gilduin, who took over in 1113, reads: “The solemn anniversary of our venerable f­ ather Gilduin, the first abbot of this church, a man of ­great dignity and holiness. He possessed zeal for God and for the order, and he restored the canonical order ­here which had fallen almost entirely into disrepair.”19 Had it ­really fallen to such a sad state ­under William? All in the short time between Easter 1111 and when Gilduin took over in 1113? From that date, St. Victor certainly began to shape a new identity for itself that emphasized its strong bonds with the king and the local bishop, whose support fostered its subsequent growth in power. William’s memory would have been irrelevant for this purpose and possibly even counterproductive. His name does not appear in the founding charter of the abbey, although he prob­ably drafted an ­earlier version of it that contained the charter for the foundation at Puiseaux and served as the basis of the newer document.20 The canons of St. Victor also diverged from William’s legacy by employing the Augustinian Rule to create a new written statute in the form of the Liber ordinis. ­Here too we see competition between individual charismatic masters and a rational order defined in statute.21 William’s vacillation also appears to have hurt his reputation among ­those who took over St. Victor a­ fter him. They remembered how on three occasions he had twisted and turned to avoid taking an episcopal office only to then reverse course and tentatively accept one.22 His memory as a teacher turned out to be quite dif­fer­ent: removing himself from the center of power along “with his students,” he set up a new foun-



The Re­nais­sance of Scientific Thought and Knowledge 75

dation in a secluded place. ­There, he ran an outstanding school that was inspired by zeal for God and understood Holy Scripture better than the schools of all the rest of the French bishops.23 His teaching tenure was remembered especially fondly in E ­ ngland.24 Both perspectives, the positive and the negative, seem to reflect something of the truth. With the move to St. Victor, William likely found himself faced with tough choices. He could ­either found a traditional ­house for regular canons or a school of the new type, albeit in the latter case one based purely on education rather than the entrepreneurial activity of a f­ ree teacher. Communities of canons often settled in the vicinity of the bishop’s church, and in Paris ­there w ­ ere power­ful po­liti­cal forces e­ ager to support such a foundation. That is prob­ably why he ended up only a few hundred meters from the cathedral on the Île-­de-­France where “tout le bouillonnement de la vie Parisienne” could be heard. They ­were directly connected to the center of power and also to the nearby suburban settlement around the abbey of Sainte-­Geneviève.25 St. Victor itself was a place already set up for hermits—­a few had lived t­ here before. The decision to place the church near the cathedral was not entirely strategic. William seems to have been motivated above all by the desire for isolation, at least at first. He genuinely sought to follow the eremitic group model and to establish a tight-­knit student-­teacher community some distance from the center of power. According to the anonymous letter cited above, William had been inspired by the model of his own teacher, Manegold, who had by then gradually transformed into a mythical figure.26 An attack on the Île de la Cité three weeks e­ arlier may also have contributed to the decision to move.27 William seems to have been trying to strike a balance between two courses of action. On the one hand, he wanted to pursue the pure monastic path of flight from the world. But on the other hand, he wanted education to be central to life at St. Victor, which would require an endowed position for a magister scholarum. An impor­tant witness to William’s delicate situation in 1111/12 is a letter sent to him by Hildebert of Lavardin, bishop of Le Mans. Hildebert encouraged him to search for a third way and to reflect on the stoic idea that the practice of philosophy should lead to a certain lifestyle.28 The phi­los­o­phers expressed this idea in their lived attitude ­toward the world, such as Diogenes, who while living out of a barrel managed to achieve a state of “rich poverty” (locupletem transegit paupertatem). To reach this state, a student-­teacher community was necessary. Hildebert advised him: “Knowledge that is shared grows while knowledge that is withheld slips away from the miserly owner

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who does not make it known. Do not, therefore, close off the currents of your teaching, but like Solomon let ‘your spring flow forth onto the streets. Spread your streams into open places’ (Prov. 5:16).” As a leitmotif, Hildebert employed the terms philosophus and philosophari no less than five times in order to emphasize that teaching is essential for the phi­los­o­pher. The only way for a wise person to live is to teach, he claims.29 Such a life was to him also far removed from the teacher “peddling” his wares (quod institoriam abdicas lectionem). The purpose of the phi­los­o­pher’s life was self-­contained: it must not be directed ­toward c­ areer advancement or material gain, and it must be embraced in its totality. It should resemble the burnt offering (holocaustum) in which the giver “sacrifices to almighty God every­t hing which they possess, every­t hing they live for, and every­t hing they know.”30 Every­t hing ­else, ­every partial sacrifice, is but a half mea­sure unlikely to succeed. Hildebert also mentioned the opposition William faced. “­There is also a rumor,” he wrote, “that certain ­people have convinced you to stay away from teaching altogether.”31 ­Behind ­these mysterious forces, it is tempting to envision a group of ­people who had wanted to establish a ­house of canons along well-­established patterns, and who tried to ­later erase the memory of William’s original plan a­ fter St. Victor’s endowment in 1113. Hildebert dedicated his entire letter to explaining why the opposite should be preferred. Like Diogenes, St. Victor’s vacillating founder could strike an ideal balance between ambition and fear if he could only manage to hold firm to his current path and teach only for the sake of piety. He might even carve out a special space where the only purpose was to philosophize. Although pursuing knowledge at a schola not focused on professional competence was indeed something novel, it possessed certain ele­ments of the eremitic, regulated, and monastic lifestyles already known and familiar in the late eleventh c­ entury. Each of t­ hese group forms had a ­future and would develop its own forms of thought and its own special habits. But to better understand t­ hese other paths to knowledge, we must first reconstruct the culture of that emerging social group, the schola.

Higher Knowledge: New Understanding and New Uses Operating a School William’s school proj­ect was by no means the first stop along the path from temporary schools of teacher-­entrepreneurs to the newer groups of masters



The Re­nais­sance of Scientific Thought and Knowledge 77

and scholars. By then, a new understanding of science as a special way of life had been developing already for thirty or forty years. It was only now in the 1110s, however, that contemporaries began to treat it with a historical eye and become suddenly interested in its origins, genealogies, and specific achievements. At almost the same time as the excited Bamberg student reported on William’s plan to reconcile spiritual and worldly knowledge through his obscure student-­teacher community, and just as Hildebert was authoring his polished letter, a chronicler in the orbit of Fleury Abbey recorded an entry on the state of scholarship during the last few de­cades.32 In d ­ oing so, he stands at the beginning of a long series of history writers including Otto of Frei­ sing, John of Salisbury, Robert of Torigny, William of Tyre, and Gerald of Wales who registered the recent arrival of scientific inquiry as a force with the power to alter social real­ity.33 The history of science was quickly becoming a topic of interest with relevance to current events. A short and seemingly unremarkable passage that was added incidentally to reports on the course of the Investiture Controversy, the county of Anjou, and the death of William the Conqueror in 1087 sheds light on the tender beginnings from which the new movement arose: “At this time, divine and ­human wisdom flourished in Lanfranc, bishop of Canterbury, the Lombard Guido, the German Manegold, and Bruno of Reims, who ­later led the life of a hermit. In dialectic, the mightiest sophists [i.e., logicians] ­were John, who taught that dialectic was an art of speech, Robert of Paris, Roscelin of Compiègne, and Arnulf of Laon. This last one was a disciple of John, and they, in turn, had numerous listeners.”34 Like Hildebert and the anonymous Bamberg writer, o ­ thers during this transition period w ­ ere interested in t­ hese scholars who had found effective ways to integrate theology and earthly knowledge. It fi­nally seemed pos­si­ble then to move beyond the concerns of ­earlier years, past Peter Damian’s ridicule of the blending of spiritual and grammatical knowledge as promiscuous (or at best as a toolbox for theological prob­lems).35 The chronicler also agreed with the anonymous letter writer and Hildebert that it was impor­tant for scholarly biographies not to end in ecclesiastical office or flight from the world. Thanks to the efforts of ­t hese masters, he reasoned, the number of scholars in the word multiplied. He also divided recent scholars into two groups based on their trajectories. The first included Lanfranc and Bruno (and sometimes also Manegold), p ­ eople who had begun as impor­tant teachers but eventually moved beyond the school and transitioned to a monastic or quasi-­monastic observance.36 The second group included the remaining four professional scholars, or sophistae, whose names

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­ ere not as well known, but who had helped to spread the schola as a social w form and as the agent of a specific philosophical position. All of them practiced a form of grammar-­focused dialectic rooted in the linguistic repre­sen­ ta­tion of real­ity rather than real­ity itself. The passage from the anonymous chronicler above documented the beginning of this new learned paradigm during the 1070s and 1080s. In it, he introduced the idea that being the leader of a school could lead to more than just one biographical possibility.37 Just as the anonymous chronicle indicates a time of transition, we ­will now begin to consistently employ the term science (Wissenschaft) instead of higher knowledge (hö­heres Wissen). The following pages ­will lay out some of the key ­factors that drove this period of change. One was that the new schools began to cultivate, preserve, and package science as a self-­sustaining proj­ect rather than one focused on the nonacademic purposes of the past. In the pro­ cess, it acquired its characteristic multidimensionality, becoming both reflexive and productive, and creating new knowledge out of already existing knowledge. Science came to be seen less as a hierarchical order than as multiple subdisciplines sharing common goals. As we w ­ ill see, it also began to develop its own concept of temporality and—at least to some extent—­ new ideas about the interconnected nature, value, and purpose of “truth” and “error.” ­These changes occurred in a social landscape governed by a new form of schoolroom intimacy dif­fer­ent from the one that we are familiar with. In this new world, knowledge was not only preserved and or­ga­nized, but also produced. Science became self-­perpetuating (autopoietic), producing its own new ele­ments from within itself. One defining literary form that emerged in this new landscape—­and one unknown to masters such as Manegold, Berengar, and Bruno of Reims—­was the anonymous gloss commentary. Considering this genre also allows us to investigate the shadowy figure named John who was identified above as a founding ­father of the new philosophy. As best we know, he was a grammarian who taught in Reims before 1076/77 and produced one of most daring and original works of t­hose years. In this work, a gloss commentary on the first sixteen books of Priscian’s Institutiones grammaticae, he treated grammar—­ unlike Priscian—as a subdiscipline of logic. One of the greatest experts on early and high medieval philosophy has called John’s so-­called Glosulae “one of the most remarkable rec­ords of intellectual life at this period.”38 In this text, grammar no longer focuses on teaching the correct placement of words in sentences but, much more fundamentally, on true statements about the na-



The Re­nais­sance of Scientific Thought and Knowledge 79

ture of the world.39 The next generation of teachers ­after John included Robert of Paris, Arnulf of Laon, and Roscelin of Compiègne (Abelard’s first impor­tant teacher who is omitted from the Historia calamitatum). About ­t hese last two figures, several satirical poems survive that poke fun at how they taught dialectic. Th ­ ese works did not follow the style of the moralizing anti-­d ialecticians but focused instead on how they both had supposedly fallen victim to a mistaken view of language.40 It is currently up for debate w ­ hether any surviving works can be assigned to Roscelin or Arnulf. The former, who was a student of John, seems to have inherited and revised the Glosulae on Priscian and remained loyal to his teacher’s views. As is common for the time, what we think we know about Roscelin comes mainly from the outside views of rivals who rejected his opinions. Our best sources in this case are Anselm of Canterbury and Roscelin’s own student Peter Abelard.41 In a letter written to Urban II, Anselm mocked Roscelin for stubbornly defending his views before a synod in the early 1090s.42 From ­t hese reports, Sir Richard Southern i­magined him to be the kind of person who made a scene wherever he went.43 Another hazy figure of the era is master Garland, one of several teachers with that name who are difficult to distinguish. He acquired some fame by authoring a narrow treatise on dialectic, which was unusual for the time. Taking the classical works of logic, he reworked them into a fresh and coherent volume that can rightfully be described as an early monograph.44 Also popu­ lar ­were the lessons of Raimbert of Lille, who taught the new language-­based form of dialectic and who managed to lure many students away from their teachers in the pro­cess.45 Fi­nally, we return to William of Champeaux, whose charismatic teaching is already known to us. Meticulous research has ascribed to him several surviving gloss works and introductory texts that paint a much clearer picture of him than of Roscelin or Manegold.46 He also taught grammar using the Glosulae super Priscianum, which he altered and passed on to Abelard and prob­ably also Alberic of Paris and Jocelin, bishop of Soissons.47 Other scholars dealt with t­ hese subjects, but in dif­fer­ent social and scholastic contexts. ­There ­were masters of cathedral schools such as Lanfranc and Anselm of Bec,48 Ivo of Chartres,49 and Anselm of Laon, the last of whom Abelard first sought out as a teacher and ­later quarreled with. Anselm studied the Bible in a traditional framework, but he was also a new scholar in the sense that research for him was not a mere phase of life but rather a lifelong b ­ attle for better understanding.50

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The Beginnings of Scientific Communication The lessons ­these masters offered produced extensive lit­er­a­ture of a completely new character. But it would go too far to call this development a “re­nais­ sance” in the sense that it relied on the rediscovery of ancient texts. The reference texts that ­t hese new works drew on had already been in use for hundreds of years. They included Aristotle’s Categoriae and De Interpretatione as well as Porphyry’s Isagoge, which introduced Aristotelian logic by explaining its main categories. Th ­ ese three w ­ ere known together as the lo­ gica vetus to distinguish them from Aristotle’s other logical works, which first reappeared in the twelfth ­century, the logica nova.51 The vetus included both didactic materials designed for beginners (Porphyry) and also denser stuff (Aristotle). Even in late antiquity, contemporaries scoffed at teachers who tended to smugly inflate their cheeks when they mentioned the awe-­inspiring title Categoriae.52 ­These works ­were known to masters and scholars of our period through the translations of Boethius, the “phi­los­o­pher of the Latins,” who had repackaged Greek philosophical teaching for the late Roman aristocracy. The new scholars also utilized commentaries and other texts written by Boethius himself.53 Some have used this reliance on the reference texts of Boethius to describe the era from about 980 to 1135 as one of continuity—as a “l’époque boécienne”—­rather than of change.54 Indeed, when the new masters dealt with dialectic, they used the very same texts over which Gerbert of Aurillac had pondered a ­century ­earlier.55 The study of Boethius also allowed the new generation of scholars to chart how logical ideas could influence the treatment of theological questions. In this way, Boethius’s texts, above all the De Trinitate, guided the direction of the new scholarship. Alongside the writings of the Church ­Fathers, ­t hese texts remained a highly impor­tant theological reference point for most of the twelfth ­century.56 The teaching of grammar was based similarly on analy­sis of Priscian’s long-­k nown Institutiones grammaticae. Rhe­toric lessons focused on Cicero’s De Inventione, the late Roman commentary on it by the rhetorician Gaius Marius Victorinus, and the pseudo-­Ciceronian Rhetorica ad Herennium. Platonic thought was known through several works that acquired canonical status during the Carolingian period, including Chalcidius’s late Roman translation of Plato’s Timaeus, Macrobius’s commentary on Cicero’s Dream of Scipio, Martianus Capella’s encyclopedic On the Marriage of Philology and Mercury, and Boethius’s Consolation of Philosophy. It should be noted once



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more that all t­ hese texts w ­ ere well known. Even so, the treatment and understanding of ­t hese texts and their knowledge soon began to change. For the first generation of new scholars, it was not so much the excitement of new discovery, but rather a feeling that the Boethian commentaries ­were inadequate, that led them to produce new, practical, and affordable texts. Glossing difficult texts by adding explanations of difficult terms and topics had been common practice for centuries. But from the 1070s on, we begin to see new efforts to provide extensive glosses that covered all pos­si­ble lines of reasoning. Th ­ ese glosses aimed at the comprehensive totality of the reference works and quickly exceeded the Boethian commentaries in detail. This glossing practice has often been associated with young and inexperienced scholars seeking to better understand ­these texts. But it also mobilized intellectual energy and a desire to undertake comprehensive analy­sis. By replacing the sporadic inquiries of the past with a desire to understand both the difficult passages as well as t­ hose that seemed to be clear, t­ hese new activities enabled a much higher level of analy­sis.57 At the schools, masters produced texts that satisfied the need to understand e­ very last word of the ancient authors. Further changes in academic thinking also soon resulted from the first discoveries of new texts in the late twelfth ­century. The logica nova, especially Aristotle’s Topics, excited scholars with the potential of unearthing old books. During the early thirteenth ­century, they then managed to recover—­mostly via Arabic translations—­ Aristotle’s writing on natu­ral philosophy, the Posterior Analytics, and his texts of practical philosophy, the Nicomachean Ethics, Politics, and Economics (which is now attributed to one of his students).58 Modern scholars interested in the logica vetus continue to identify new commentaries from the late eleventh and early twelfth centuries. They also tend to assign them an early and firm date in the last de­cades before 1100.59 An international group of specialists have dedicated themselves to cata­loging ­t hese works, tracing their references, and identifying connections between them.60 To date, the lists have been continuously refined by John Marenbon, Yukio Iwakuma, Irène Rosier-­Catach, Anne Grondeux, Cédric Giraud, Constant Mews, and ­others. ­These texts are difficult to understand according to modern concepts of “author” and “work.” Transmitted anonymously (at least before Abelard), they arose not from the thoughts of individuals but from continuous and progressive acts of communication.61 This communication took place not only in the interaction between master and students, but also when students left

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with the latest version of texts and established their own schools. Students and teachers took existing works (as in the case of the Glosulae), modified them, added to them, and introduced them to o ­ thers. Th ­ ese works thus evolved in layers and stages rather than through a linear pro­cess.62 While most stayed close to the model of the glossed Aristotle, Porphyry, and Boethius in composition and structure, some grew into full-­fledged treatises and introductiones.63 John Marenbon has proposed a better way to understand t­ hese commentaries. They are not literary works in the sense that they have a single author, nor do they ­really try to pass on the intent of the author accurately. They are instead “tools for, or rec­ords of, teaching” that reflect “the lectures of more than one master, since a teacher would feel ­free to take an existing commentary but elaborate on it.” 64 Teachers and students used the commentaries of ­others, expanding and altering them freely. According to Marenbon, t­ hese texts w ­ ere “essentially anonymous” not in the common sense of the word but ­because “they do not have an author.” Changes to ­t hese works often appear to have resulted from students editing the notes and transcripts they took during lectures. De­cades ­later, it was still said that logic in Paris was studied not from books, but from slips and bundles of paper.65 By consulting modern editions that try to visualize t­ hese changes in condensed form, we can appreciate how creatively t­ hese students engaged with the templates of their teachers.66 Remarks such as “­These . . . ​ are the essentials according to William” or “an introduction to dialectic according to Master G. Paganellus” witness this formation pro­cess.67 Such texts should be understood as layered, as including numerous stages of copying and editing intertwined and woven together. The Boethian texts formed an impor­tant stratum on the Latin translations of Aristotle and Porphyry, but above and through this stratum passed newer additions introduced by several generations of students and teachers at the scholae.68 Classroom jokesters found ample opportunity to enrich t­ hese texts with their own ideas. The colorful tidbits they added in the margins sometimes drifted into the main texts when copies ­were made. For example, contingent states w ­ ere explained with examples such as “she ­will screw (haec futuet) / she ­will not screw,” “Peter shuts the door / Peter does not shut the door,” “Peter falls into the latrine / Peter does not fall into the latrine.” “Observe that ­t here are verbs which function as s­ imple predicates, such as ‘Socrates reads’ or ‘G. screws.’ ” This student apparently found his approach a bit more mem-



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orable than the conventional example of Socrates. In another text, we find it noted that a sound emerged from a certain Adam (Adam pepedit).69

A New Episteme in the Making Reflexivity, Disciplinarity, Temporality, and Operative Concepts of “True” and “False” Even though we can only partially reconstruct ­these practices, we can see certain innovations that would eventually add up to scientific thinking. The first was the degree of self-­referentiality and reflexivity found in the glosses and commentaries. Although they first manifested in the teaching of logic, they w ­ ere soon being used to examine all subjects. Aristotle, it was pointed out, quite obviously dealt with language in his De interpretatione, but what about in his other writings? In the opening passage of the Isagoge (the logical first stop for students), they noted, Porphyry raised an open-­ended prob­ lem, merely sketching out the answer since it was too complicated for a textbook. When Aristotle spoke of genera and species, Porphyry asked, did he mean categories that existed in tangible real­ity or purely linguistic concepts?70 It seemed obvious to most, both intuitively and by tradition, that logic dealt with real t­ hings (res). They even referred to lessons on dialectic taught according to this premise as being in re. ­Because this position was so common, scholars became curious when some began to suggest other­wise. Possibly as early as the 1070s, but definitely by the 1080s, we begin to hear of genera and species described as voces, as purely linguistic concepts. This new way of teaching (in voce, as it was said) claimed not to describe real ­t hings but rather the linguistic repre­sen­ta­tion of real­ity. When speaking of genera, the object of inquiry was not ­really an animal but rather the concept of “animal.” In terms of species, dialectic dealt not with flesh and blood p ­ eople, but rather with the concept of “person.” The chronicler above described how master John, who was prob­ably the earliest representative of this school, taught that dialectic was a linguistic art (qui artem sophisticam vocalem esse disseruit). The word vox referred to the act of vocalization, to speaking as a practice rather than language as an arsenal of options—of “parole,” not “langue.” The anonymous introductory works on Porphyry’s Isagoge recorded the arrival of the approach in voce calmly and factually. But other texts, such as

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the Bamberg satires about Roscelin and Arnulf of Laon, ridiculed it: dialectic bristles at the prospect of being reduced to language; Aristotle prepares to complain loudly about ­t hings (res) being stolen from him and declared to be mere sounds (voces); Porphyry sighs at the prospect of readers taking away his t­ hings (res).71 Anselm of Canterbury made the point more aggressively in the early 1090s when he numbered Roscelin among the “heretical dialecticians” who “held that universals w ­ ere nothing but a breath of air produced by the voice.” For this reason, Anselm argued, such ideas should be kept far away from conversations about spiritual ­matters.72 Even ­a fter the ­middle of the twelfth c­ entury, when the position had long been obscured by more pressing questions, Otto of Freising and John of Salisbury still remembered ­these theories and that Roscelin was their first supporter.73 Two opposing views would guide f­ uture developments in this area: was dialectic a hard science, or was it a language art? Since both perspectives concerned higher knowledge itself rather than its material, they enriched it with a self-­referential dimension. This dimension also manifested in the communication and practices of the schools, giving rise to loyalty and enmity, bound­ aries and alliances. Both positions seem to have derived their everyday importance in no small part through reference to their counterpart. This affirmation through “othering” was a natu­ral result of higher knowledge developing reflexive pro­cesses and competing positions. By helping to shape the emerging academic field, the losing side would earn a place in the memory of the next generation. History writers rec­ord that when a master in Lille named Raimbert began to teach in voce, students in nearby Tournai became anxious b ­ ecause their own master Odo (who called himself Odardus) adhered to the mainstream form in re. They seem to have found the new position more in­ter­est­ing and began to cause unrest as they strug­gled to decide who was correct. One partisan reporter who denigrated Raimbert’s approach as a mere novelty remembered how the bickering students called on a well-­k nown seer who was deaf and mute to act as referee. Using sign language, the seer proclaimed to them that the conservative position in re was on solid ground while Raimbert’s teaching in voce was empty nonsense. By dragging the fin­gers of his right hand across the palm of his left hand like a plow, he indicated that Odo’s teaching was profound and correct (doctrinam eius esse rectissimam). Raimbert not being pre­sent, the seer then pointed his fin­ger ­toward Lille, raised his hand to his mouth, and blew over it. The conclusion the students drew was that master Raimbert was “a



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verbose windbag.”74 Disdain for abstract positions is evidently as old as academia itself. This reflexive attitude t­ oward one’s actions derived in part from the awareness that the positions held by one’s teacher ­were not the only pos­si­ble ones. The students of Alberic de Monte in the ­middle of the twelfth ­century ­were well aware that his principales positiones differed from the ones Abelard taught. Characteristic of his teaching was compiling lists of sentences such as ­those ­under the heading De sententia magistri nostri Alberici, which read: “Let it be known, therefore, that t­here are fourteen main positions in our sentence, five of which are hy­po­t het­i­cal and nine of which are categorical.” The importance of t­hese sentences derived in large part from the implicit awareness that they w ­ ere directed against Abelard.75 Another innovation in the ordering of knowledge was the rearrangement of disciplines. It had been common knowledge that intellectual provinces existed that followed dif­fer­ent rules and premises. The anti-­dialecticians in the ­middle of the eleventh ­century, as we saw, had placed limits on the potential of ­human knowledge in the form of dialectic to answer questions of divine omnipotence. ­Later scholars also strug­gled to define the proper relationship between logical ­human intellect and a kind of knowledge that both aspired to divine revelation and took individual faith as a prerequisite. This debate often served as a test case for w ­ hether or not some form of knowledge should be accepted and sometimes posed a major intellectual challenge as we saw in the ­earlier example of Peter Damian. The traditional way to answer such questions was to establish a hierarchy of arts and sciences based on their relationships to each other. For this hierarchy to be accepted though, dialectic had to assume a role visibly subordinate to theology. A less stressful and contentious way to reflect on the relative nature of dif­fer­ent disciplines was to focus on the “trivial” arts and sciences. This terrain was far less hazardous and less likely to mobilize fierce intellectual opposition. An example of this kind of thinking can be found in an anonymous scholar’s glosses on William of Champeaux’s teaching on Boethius preserved in a manuscript from Orléans: “Master W. says that all propositions and questions have two senses, one grammatical and one dialectical. For example, ‘Socrates is white’ means grammatically that ‘Socrates is a white ­t hing’ and dialectically that ‘whiteness is inherent to Socrates.’ Furthermore, the question ‘­whether Socrates is or is not a person’ has both an intrinsic grammatical sense and a dialectical one as well: ‘­whether the predicate exists within

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the subject.’ Boethius says that this last sense is common to all questions with a predicate.”76 William seems to have opposed Boethius on this point, arguing for the more complicated view that grammar and dialectic see dif­fer­ent ­things in the same statement. Some students followed their teacher; ­others did not. Abelard ­later remembered how William’s “followers” henceforth discussed propositions according to two distinct “senses.”77 Even the glossing student rejected this doctrine b ­ ecause of its wider implications. If it was true, he reasoned, then two other senses prob­ably existed too—­the physical and the ethical.78 “Physical” and “ethical” w ­ ere chosen to represent all areas of philosophia.79 The point seems to be that distinguishing between a grammatical and a dialectical sense requires accepting that all disciplines follow their own definitions and logic. This line of reasoning had a bright f­ uture in the following two centuries as it was developed by masters such as the Spaniard Domingo Gundisalvo (Gundisalvi, Dominicus Gundissalinus), who was inspired by the Islamic phi­los­o­pher al-­Fārābī. Introductory texts like t­ hose of Gundisalvo sought to explain the respective objects, parts, tasks, goals, instruments, and reference texts of each discipline.80 As Alan of Lille explained de­cades ­after William: “­Every discipline upholds its own rules and its own foundations with the exception of grammar, which exists entirely in ­human appreciation and ­will, and whose rules are determined solely by ­people. All other disciplines are based on their own rules and are enclosed by clear bound­aries.”81 From this perspective, more knowledge could be gained by connecting the disciplines. What happened, for example, if one looked at Priscian’s grammar through the lens of dialectic, submitting its remarks on grammatical person to logical analy­sis and investigating the tension between the first person singular “I” read realiter and vocaliter? The anonymous author of the Glosule was fascinated by this approach and by the sequence of teachers and students who employed it in their lessons and thinking.82 The relationship between grammar and dialectic changed in the pro­cess. The former was partially incorporated into the latter and obtained a new role in assessing the truth. “Grammar is reduced to logic as if the latter ­were its genus.”83 Reflecting on this overlap requires awareness that grammar and dialectic possessed not only dif­fer­ent reference texts but also dif­fer­ent questions and perspectives. This approach enabled not only advancements in knowledge but also new sensitivity to the possibility of advancement. Th ­ ose who worked in this way could get something new out of Boethius or Aristotle, and modern



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authors could develop positions that would have been unthinkable in the past.84 Pro­gress in interpretation and understanding came to be seen as pro­gress in knowledge. Engagement with higher knowledge thus acquired a new notion of temporality. One result, according to Richard Southern, was a shift in the meaning of “old” and “new.” Before, moderni had been used to describe authors who had acted as intermediaries between ancient or patristic authors and the pre­ sent even if they had lived hundreds of years e­ arlier. At the end of the eleventh c­ entury, however, scholars began to apply it to teachers of the previous generation, even to ­t hose who had produced no oeuvre and whose opinions ­were preserved only spottily in gloss works. As the term modernus inched closer to the pre­sent, it came to describe contemporaries, the recently deceased, and—in general—­authors whose teaching and writing remained relevant in pre­sent times. The boundary between the antiqui and moderni became a “moving wall,” indicating which bodies of work deserved par­tic­u­ lar attention in the pre­sent.85 A commentary on Theodolus written before 1099 claims that the moderni no longer structured their works according to the criteria of the antiqui and instead a­ dopted new and better par­a meters. The author, Bernard of Utrecht, was respectful as he weighed the authority of old and new to establish the superiority of the latter. It was Priscian, ­after all, who said that ­people tend to be more perceptive in their youth than in old age (tanto iuniores, quanto perspicatiores). As ambiguous as this meta­phor was, it was henceforth used to state that pre­sent scholars could indeed surpass the respectable achievements of the past.86 In their classroom notes, students began to collect the opinions of con­temporary teachers along with t­ hose of the ancients.87 A student of William of Champeaux noted in a gloss that his teacher recognized many more loci than Boethius had and even provided a list of them. The student reasoned that one or the other must be lying (aut hic mentitur Boethius aut magister W.) but also allowed that both might be true: “Some,” he wrote, “think that neither Boethius nor master W. are lying since Boethius dealt in his book only with loci which ­were in use in his time while master W. is talking about other ones.”88 Might we have h ­ ere early evidence of a new, historical pa­ram­e­ter for assessing truth in a statement? E ­ ither way, the statement shows how both knowledge and techniques of analy­sis w ­ ere undergoing change based on a fundamental new idea of temporality, and how the very awareness of such changes was becoming a part of academic thinking.

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The sentence collection known as the Liber pancrisis, one of the best witnesses to the teaching of theology, has received much attention from modern scholars in recent years. The oldest manuscript of the text, which can be roughly dated to between 1131 and 1170, announces at the very beginning that it contains sentences and questions from the Holy ­Fathers Augustine, Jerome, Ambrose, Gregory, Isidore, and Bede, “as well as from the modern masters Bishop William of Champeaux, Bishop Ivo of Chartres, Anselm [of Laon], and his ­brother Ralph.”89 The goal of the text was to document a generation of moderni by placing them on equal footing with the Church ­Fathers. The moderni even take center stage in some cases: the initial sentences on the nature of God and Jesus, on Creation, and on Original Sin come from William while t­ hose on schism, simony, and heresy come from William and Ivo.90 In the slightly ­later manuscript from the first quarter of the thirteenth c­ entury, however, the scribe diminished the importance of this generation, claiming that their contribution was to “excerpt” and “interpret” what the saints had written. The “moving wall” had by then edged its way past William and his contemporaries.91 One last change in the new ordering of knowledge remains to be covered. When the student mentioned above considered ­whether Master William had “lied” about the Boethian loci or not, he employed the familiar semantics of scholarly conflict. This rhe­toric, used already by the heroes of previous chapters, drew from the vocabulary of lies, sins, and moral transgression.92 In his Liber contra Wolfelmum, the canon Manegold had used this vocabulary frequently, even drawing connections between error and heresy.93 Some of the polemics against Berengar of Tours likewise called into question both his moral integrity and his intellectual merit in order to discredit his positions.94 Attacks “against the most filthy voices of Berengar and his followers” obviously implied moral deficits.95 Anselm of Canterbury treated Roscelin’s views on the Trinity as the botched ideas of a buffoon. He even called in Pope Urban II to bury the issue once and for all, and for a few years nothing more was heard of Roscelin on this question.96 Even Abelard cited certain of Roscelin’s positions as evidence that he had lost his marbles.97 A science that saw its knowledge as open to debate and improvement could not afford to tolerate such attacks. Ideally, the truth of a spoken statement would be judged separately from the moral character of the speaker. True science requires knowledge to exist in a realm that insists on methodological rigor but also allows for error. M ­ istakes must be removed from the outside world of virtue, sin, and character and integrated into the knowledge



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system itself. Showing that something does not work must become a respectable act in and of itself.98 The new dialectic made a decisive contribution in this regard by offering a concept of truth tied closely to the spoken statement. This approach showed that errors, m ­ istakes, and false conclusions ­were secular and harmless rather than lies and sins. A good example is the so-­called Pseudo-­Rabanus, a treatise written in the circle of William of Champeaux that draws on the Isagoge and the Boethian commentaries. In it, “false” is defined according to Boethius’s second commentary as “that which is understood differently than the ­thing.” 99 This view allowed William and his students the chance to reflect on the nature of falsity, ­mistake, and error. False opinions arise from misperception and must be abandoned once they are shown to be falsum et vanum, falsum et vacuum. But such ­mistakes also reveal when an idea is a dead end. Th ­ ese falsitates sometimes emerge from improper conceptual combinations such as crossing a ­horse with a person to make a centaur.100 In most cases, they are neither evil nor dangerous. According to Aristotle, nouns and verbs cannot be truthful on their own and become so only by being assembled and divided up. Boethius a­ dopted the same position, and through him both of our anonymous glossators.101 While propositions are merely statements that are ­either right or wrong, “true” and “false” are diametrically opposed concepts. Only when an intellectual order deliberately steers itself ­toward the false and tries to label it as true are scholars required to bring out the heavy guns and draw a clear line between legitimate dialectic technique and false sophistry.102 Abelard dealt with t­ hese questions in his Sic et non when he tried to decouple the concept of error from lies and sins. The glossators also spent much time and energy trying to determine which conditions must be pre­sent in order to qualify a statement as true or false.103 What happens, for example, when you combine “buck” and “deer” to make a “buckdeer” (hirocervus)? How can it be that a true statement becomes false only by adding the word omnis (“is ­every Socrates a man”)?104 The purpose of dialectic was to assess such cases.105 This secular view of error and ­mistake took shape in a crowded arena of speakers and writers where students assessed the truthfulness of their teachers. In this atmosphere, reliance on the superiority of true statements and adherence to pro­cess provided much-­needed stability. The form of debate they settled on, that of disputation, helped to promote intellectual competition, but it also subjected competitiveness to fixed rules. Participants wanted to know that losing would not discredit them morally while still feeling some

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pressure to win. On this basis, “truth” served as a harmless regulating standard rather than an ontological obligation. According to its supporters, this method of gaining knowledge was ancient in origins but had long been forgotten. They now took it up again and eagerly pursued its potential to refine, improve, and overtake existing knowledge. This key insight, that new knowledge could indeed surpass old knowledge, is usually attributed to a ­later phase of history, as we saw in Chapter 1. But ­here we seem to be encountering it for the first time since antiquity. We w ­ ill now see how, just before the mid-­twelfth c­ entury, it began to attract a ­great deal of new attention. Truthfulness and Ritualized Opposition: The Transformation of Student-­Teacher Intimacy ­ ecause this modified interpretative framework proved to be incompatible B with the older princi­ple of student-­teacher loyalty, it gradually altered conduct in the schools and led to a restructuring of the intimate relationships discussed in the second and third chapters. The traditional system was based on transmitting “correct” knowledge faithfully from one generation to the next, on a competition-­and popularity-­based attention economy, and on an emotional regime that had taken shape in an intimate schoolroom setting. But in the renewed environment of academic reflexivity and disciplinarity, and u ­ nder the influence of the new scientific notion of temporality and new ideas about truth, the teaching of masters was now opened up to doubt and debate. In this new academic world, doubting one’s teacher became not just acceptable but also an accepted way of improving knowledge. Before examining this system as described in Abelard’s work, we w ­ ill conclude this chapter with some brief observations. Teachers’ names appear in dif­fer­ent contexts in the gloss works. Sometimes they ­were referred to for what they taught: for example, what did master Anselm say about est in a comparative clause? Their names w ­ ere also used in examples, such as, “I hear ‘William!’ and I understand ‘come!’ ” Even their everyday remarks ­were recorded: “Master G.,” one student notes, “says he ­doesn’t remember reading it in the glosses—­maybe someone ­else added it?”106 Most importantly, their teaching could now be criticized. Sita Steckel, Claire Nouvet, and o ­ thers have already identified a culture of f­ ree discussion that began to emerge at the schools of the late eleventh ­century and signaled the renewed intellectualism of the High ­Middle Ages.107 We have seen ­here how a student pondered in his glosses ­whether Boethius or his teacher was



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lying, and how he showed skepticism ­toward vari­ous approaches to dialectic and grammar.108 We noted that Abelard scored a few points against his teacher Roscelin, and we ­will see how he dealt extensively with the ideas of William of Champeaux before ­later distancing himself.109 Jocelin, ­later bishop of Soissons, also noted where he disagreed with William and attempted to improve his teacher’s theory.110 As we ­w ill see, the new scientific field that is slowly coming into focus not only practiced criticism and doubt but also integrated them into the everyday classroom practices of listening, writing, individual thinking, and scholarly communication. Students tended to act more cautiously ­toward their teachers’ theological statements than ­toward their ideas about grammar, rhe­toric, and dialectic. But theology was not entirely conservative e­ ither; its style also underwent significant changes at the schools. Between Anselm of Laon and William of Champeaux, it was the latter who broke away more decisively from the traditional tasks of biblical and patristic exegesis. Rather than specific readings, he dedicated his study of texts to theological questions involving the Trinity, divine providence, and predestination.111 Debate over theology had higher stakes and was more likely to lead to sanctions (as in Roscelin’s case), but certain “checks and balances” existed too. A student named Laurence described some of them when discussing a collection of sentences on the Trinity inspired by Hugh of St. Victor. According to his account, his fellow students had entrusted him with transcribing the teacher’s words. The task involved a lot of responsibility and the risk of misunderstanding or misrepresenting his teacher. Refusing to bear it alone, Laurence approached master Hugh once a week with his notes and asked him to trim, expand, and edit them.112 The Liber pancrisis also began as a collection of student notes, and although it was compiled with less oversight from a teacher, it too possesses a semi-­official character (Constant Mews).113 Doubt and opposition w ­ ere also baked into the performative activity of the schools. Students and scholars had to remain up to speed as to when and where individual litterati ­were holding lectures or debates with their peers over contentious questions. To participate, they had to seek out ­t hese places and at the appropriate times. Gilbert Crispin, a con­temporary, described this atmosphere in an allegorized form, but one whose ele­ments are confirmed by other witnesses. Using his Disputation Between a Christian and a Jew (c. 1092/93), we can cautiously reconstruct the performative aspects of ­these new forms of scholastic communication.114

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Although the philosophi would ­later debate theology, they focused initially on m ­ atters of dialectic, grammar, and epistemology. Gilbert heard about one such disputation and was urged to go, but he tried to avoid it since it was far away and he feared that he might get lost on the way.115 At some point, however, he dropped his opposition and entrusted himself to a guide, who dragged him ­gently along the path. When they reached the lodging ­house (diversorium) where the event was being held, his escort went straight in and began to mingle with the core group, which had been expecting him and treated him as “one of the insiders” (quia erat de intraneis). Gilbert preferred to stay outside as “one of the outsiders” (remansi, quia eram de extraneis), but since he knew one of the doormen, he managed to get a seat in the entry­way where he could see the scholars, who ­were obviously logicians. He correctly deduced that their first questions would be about prioritizing basic substances, species, genera, and t­ hings. Aristotle and Porphyry seemed to contradict each other on this topic. A second question was posed: was grammar actually a part of logic (in the sense of language-­based philosophy)? H ­ ere too ­t here was doubt, and the entire accepted division of the arts was called into question. ­These questions clearly reflect topics that ­were popu­lar in the schools at the end of eleventh ­century. How should genera and species be viewed relative to the facts of the world? How did grammar relate to the logica dissertiva whose components ­were inventio and iudicium (according to the Glosule)?116 Gilbert was awaiting answers when a “worthy looking person” came through the door and requested with a solemn gesture that the outsiders quiet down and listen with re­spect to what was about to be said “inside.” At this point, Gilbert de­cided to enter and witnessed the sermo of two phi­los­o­phers, one Jewish and one Christian. Members of famous but distinct sectae, they tried to assess the validity of the Christian faith using only reason and true statements. We would be ­going well off track if we delved any deeper into this disputation. What it says about the performative acts of logic, grammar, and theology in the early 1090s is nonetheless quite revealing. Th ­ ese events w ­ ere scheduled, which is to say they did not occur only during moments of leisure like in the case of the canon Manegold or in another disputation recorded by Gilbert.117 Instead, they followed a ritual that bound the determination of truth to the observance of an established pro­cess. One must place himself inside or outside, sit or stand, speak or stay s­ ilent, command silence, take one side or the other, and all the while recognize that the interlocutors occupied roles befitting their levels of dignity. When the non-­Christian phi­los­o­pher



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unexpectedly got up and left, the assembly of onlookers (fere tota circumstantium contio) discussed how to h ­ andle the awkwardness—if they s­topped then, the heathen would have the last word! They eventually de­cided that a member of the crowd should adopt the role of a student so that the war of words could be concluded with didactic dialog.118 Rituals fail when they veer outside of their temporal and performative framework. And when a ritual does fail, some attempt must be made to mitigate the effect. But when the rules ­were successfully followed, disputation created a procedural space with room for error and allowed the participants to occupy roles (personae) divested of their social identity. The new schools and their knowledge did not monopolize the study of the arts at this time. Other educational forms continued to exist. Just as the gloss commentaries w ­ ere branching out, a series of letters written in Regensburg also dealt with philosophy, with the role of dialectic, and with the rationale of disputation. The authors playfully pretend that they are not ­going to bother with philosophy only to then flex their literary muscles. Obviously, they w ­ ere not operating in a realm in which b ­ attles over such topics often resulted in any dangerous or existentially significant consequences. Their goal was simply to practice the art of writing and reasoning, and so they made ­little effort to take defensible positions as they quibbled.119 We are dealing with a new space cut from a dif­fer­ent cloth. Turning now to Peter Abelard, we ­will investigate how this man made his mark on the world. In the pro­cess, we ­will see how non-­academic outsiders began to take notice of the new knowledge and to utilize its experts.

CHAPTER 5

Peter Abelard and the New Science Accelerating Tradition The Exceptional Teacher Even if Peter Abelard did not break from the new academic episteme so much as intensify and radicalize it, his arrival at the new schools still brought much change.1 Had not this knight’s son from Brittany entered the scholarly world and made it his own, the norms and practices that led us in the last chapter to switch from learned knowledge to scientific knowledge may well have developed only steadily over the next few generations. At a young age, Abelard resolutely renounced his earthly inheritance “to become a knight of the pen.” But then, when his parents surprised him by entering a monastery, his thoughts turned to his own faith. ­Until then, he had been practicing the arts as ­others trained for the tournament. He had attacked his classroom activities and the academic fields head-on, mea­sur­ing up the arena and the competition, and equipping himself with apol­o­getic and polemical armor to defend against the arrows that the anti-­dialecticians aimed at the lifestyle and thinking of the dialecticians. ­There is a tendency to mythologize Abelard’s era as the time when the “sciencification” of higher knowledge ­really took off. As tempting as it might seem though, this characterization is no more accurate than the overly harsh criticism of historians who see him as ­little more than a scatterbrained innovator or a careless rogue.2 By considering the schoolroom interactions in Abelard’s day, we might better understand the four decades after 1100 as the turbulent teens of the young science. The ­great fame and attention that Peter drew to himself caused his contemporaries to form an impression (albeit clichéd and exaggerated) of the new science. His widespread renown across Eu­rope reflected not just his activities, but also their societal importance. In Peter, ­others began to recognize the impact of the new science on their own environment and as a way of life.3



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Abelard was an event.4 He became famous early on well beyond his personal circle, and his followers lavished over-­the-­top praise on his intellectual abilities. His epitaph reads: “This man knew what­ever could be known. He conquered the artists, teaching the arts without a teacher himself. The eleventh day before the kalends of May snatched Peter away, depriving logic’s palace of its king. Now within this grave lies Peter Abelard, who alone knew what­ever was knowable to man.”5 Such exaggeration was common in obituaries. William of Conches or Thierry of Chartres taught a far more developed natu­ral science and delved much deeper into Plato around the same time as him. Peter’s student John of Salisbury also read far more widely. Nor did Peter bother much with mathe­matics, never feeling quite at home in the world of numbers, points, and lines.6 Nevertheless, his work and influence placed dialectic and theology on new foundations. Still ­today, he numbers among the most impor­tant phi­los­o­phers of all time, and few broad surveys of the history of science fail to include at least the preface of his Sic et non, the famous collection of theological sentences that we w ­ ill examine below.7 Even jurisprudence, which remained mostly foreign to him, was not untouched by his work. In several crossover works that traversed multiple subjects, he managed to open up untrodden paths.8 Abelard’s academic work alone does not suffice to explain his Europe-­ wide popularity. Gilbert of Poitiers, who died thirteen years a­ fter him, was also a luminary and one of the greatest minds of the age. But—­with one modest exception—no one associated him with fame, celebrity, and stardom.9 Acquiring a taste for Gilbert’s teaching required per­sis­tent thinking and attention, but Peter’s style immediately drew in the listener. He possessed wit, humor, brilliance, a skill for quick rejoinders, and an amusing propensity for polemic. He even caused o ­ thers to try to match him, such as the author of a commentary on Cicero (possibly William of Champeaux): “­don’t lie with nuns,” the text reads, “­because someone recently lost a certain body part ­doing it.”10 Plenty of legends circulated about Abelard, like how he had scrambled up a tree and taught from ­t here ­after the king forbade him from teaching on his lands. The king banned him from the air too, but Peter simply relocated to a boat on the banks of the Seine. When the king saw the spectacle, he could not help but smile and admit defeat—­Peter was then allowed to teach anywhere.11 ­These stories, recorded ­later, obscure the fact that Peter’s own “school” survived for only about ten years a­ fter his death even though most con­ temporary schools had some lasting impact on the ­later teaching tradition

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in the second half of the twelfth c­ entury. We read of Adamites, Albericians, Gilbertines, Melunsians, Montaners, and Robertinians, but never of “Abelardians.” Peter was more famous than all of them, but he was a solitary figure. It has been suggested that his followers had to spend so much time clarifying and defending his work that they never had a chance to develop anything new and compelling.12 Unlike most of his colleagues, many details of Abelard’s life are available to us. In addition to the Historia calamitatum, the autobiographical letter he wrote to an anonymous friend around 1132, we have the observations of t­ hose who followed his activities closely.13 When history writers made subtle allusions to his love affair with Heloise and to his catastrophic castration, they ­were confident that they would be understood.14 At the same time, one should exercise caution when accepting their judgments since they often regurgitated the opinions of uninformed ­people who had only recently snapped up his works.15 Few scholars of following centuries became so popu­lar and so shrouded in myth. In recent years, Abelard has received attention from postmodern phi­los­o­phers and historians of subjectivity; from genealogists of Eu­ro­pean atheism and researchers of love, chivalry, and autobiography; from experts in medieval monasticism and commercial filmmakers. Michael Clanchy, his biographer, made the intriguing choice to follow the events of his life out of chronological order b ­ ecause of how severely out of place Peter seemed in the social world of his day. It can help to view the Historia calamitatum as evidence of this social displacement and his subsequent letters as an attempt to overcome it. Clanchy built a picture of Abelard in brilliant color, investigating the many roles he occupied: scholar, master, logician, knight, lover, man, monk, theologian, and heretic.16 ­These roles went hand in hand with Abelard’s peculiar positions and transgressions: he describes Pa­ri­sian academic competition using the jargon of chivalry; his love life leads him to a new theory of learned asceticism; while writing poetry, he casts aspersions on the practice from a theological a­ ngle; although a pioneer of dialectic (the scientia scientiarum), he holds major reservations about putting too much faith in it.17 Contemporaries also criticized Abelard for being out of place in his society. Bernard of Clairvaux described him as “a monk without a rule and a prelate without a sense of duty. He neither supports his order nor is he supported by it. He is unlike even himself: internally a Herod, externally a John [the Baptist], and altogether ambiguous—­a monk in nothing but name and habit.”18



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Bernard detested Peter’s intellectual enthusiasm for unresolved contradictions. A common remark was that he had usurped his teaching role without even pretending to have been a star pupil or a classroom luminary. It must have weighed heavi­ly on Peter that Roscelin, one of his early teachers, had even criticized him directly for his intellectual rootlessness.19 Abelard has found fame in both the Eu­ro­pean literary tradition and in modern pop culture.20 While the prominence of “­free” teachers began ­earlier ­under Anselm of Laon and William of Champeaux, Abelard outshines his competitors.21 Knowing much about his life and possessing many of his works (but by no means all), we can trace how his thinking changed over four fascinating and creative de­cades. In modern debates over the historicity of philosophical thought, Abelard is often cited as solid proof that it indeed changes and develops over time.22 Much in Abelard’s story, however, appears less than heroic. The memory of his ­career was tinged by the bloody end to his affair with Heloise, and even more by the fact that he was condemned twice by ecclesiastical courts in cases even more famous than ­t hose of Roscelin and Berengar. Abelard certainly reinvigorated the theory and practice of scientific inquiry, affirming its concepts of authorship and work, and the roles of discourse and doubt as the only valid currency of intellectual communication.23 But his ­career also served as a test case for the methods of keeping academic discourse in check.24 As Jürgen Miethke has observed, Abelard’s opponents w ­ ere the first to base ecclesiastical heresy t­ rials on lists of errors compiled by the prosecution rather than on the writings of the defendant. In this way, they reduced the risk of embarrassing themselves during proceedings. B ­ ecause Abelard was so feared as a debater and ­because he had employed such drastic mea­sures to defend himself at the 1141 Sens trial, church authorities took steps afterward to make the forensic questioning of the consistory court less like academic disputation. ­Future defendants w ­ ere made painfully aware that the rules of acceptable speech in the outside world ­were dif­fer­ent than in the lecture hall.25 ­Because of its irritating inconsistencies, Abelard’s biography does not lend itself to glorification. The narrator of the Historia calamitatum accuses himself of haughtiness and narcissism at first but seems scarcely able to hide his ingrained vanity at other points. By the passages describing the early 1130s, he tends t­ oward egocentrism, self-­praise, and contempt for his opponents. His purported self-­criticism serves ­little purpose except to back up his assertion that his enemies had done him g­ reat injustices. He even begins the work, which he claims is a consolatorium, with a self-­confident proclamation to its

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dedicatee: you might think that life has dealt you a bad hand, but just wait ­until you hear how mine has gone!26 Life and Work Peter was born around 1079, the oldest son of a ­family that, although not of Breton origins, was based near Nantes at Le Pallet.27 In this knightly ­family, education was apparently as much the norm as learning how to wield weapons. Peter’s early lessons from his ­father inspired in him such a hunger for learning that he relinquished his rights to his younger b ­ rother and went out to seek out a teacher. In the 1090s, this path led him to Roscelin of Compiègne. Around 1100, Peter made it to Paris, where he entered the school of William of Champeaux. A ­ fter their first arguments, he set himself up as a master in Melun and then in Corbeil, which was close enough to Paris to allow him to compete with William. The next few years he was forced to spend with his ­family in Le Pallet owing to an illness that he attributed to overwork.28 When he eventually returned to Paris, it was at precisely the time when William was leaving his position at the cathedral to embark on the path of scholarly hermitage. Relations between the teacher and student remained mixed. Abelard attended William’s lectures on rhe­toric but also made a name for himself as his critic and, above all, by attacking his views on the question of universals. Abelard came out on top in this controversy, which seemingly made him a shoo-in for the teaching position at the Notre-­Dame cathedral school. But William blocked it. Peter continued teaching in Melun for a while before moving to the hill of Sainte-­Geneviève just outside Paris. In 1113, he also began applying his abilities in the artes liberales to questions of theology, and so he went to Laon to study ­under master Anselm, the most eminent theologian at that time. ­These two also came into conflict as Peter began to offer his own lessons in theology. He soon returned to Paris and was fi­ nally able to take up the position at Notre-­Dame. ­There he began his famous affair with Heloise. In 1115 or 1116, her ­uncle, Fulbert, a cathedral canon at Notre-­Dame, contracted Abelard to provide her lessons in the artes liberales. Heloise soon became pregnant though, and so Abelard sent her off to his ­sister in Brittany. ­There she gave birth to a son, Peter, to whom she also gave the byname Astralabius, a boy Abelard ­later called the joy of his fatherhood.29 Astrolabe grew up with Abelard’s ­family, and in the meantime Abelard and Heloise got married in secret. Heloise’s ­uncle Fulbert, however, was outraged when he learned of ­these events. He sent



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her off to a nunnery in Argenteuil and plotted with his relatives how to punish Abelard. At some point in 1117, they ambushed him in his sleep and castrated him. As Peter ­later put it: “They cut off the parts of my body whereby I had committed the wrong of which they complained.”30 Abelard always expressed ­great interest in monasticism, and so he made the best of the situation by entering the abbey of Saint-­Denis while Heloise became a nun in Argenteuil. But he immediately earned the ire of his b ­ rothers by declaring that their habits did not meet his own high standards for monastic life. They allowed him to move to a cella, which seems to have been owned by Saint-­Denis, so that he could teach t­ here and supplement his study of logic with that of theology. ­Here he authored his first theological works but was soon made to answer for them at a synod held in Soissons in 1121 ­under the leadership of a papal legate. His Theologia “Summi boni” was condemned, and, in tears, he was forced to cast it into the flames. The synod also symbolically condemned him to a life of monastic confinement. While the local abbey of Saint-­Médard took him in kindly, Peter was unable to remain content. He wrote of his time ­there as if a social wound had been added to his physical one. “I wept much more for the injury done to my reputation,” he wrote, “than for the damage to my body, for that I had brought upon myself through my own fault, but this open act of vio­lence had come upon me only ­because of the purity of my intentions and love of our faith which had compelled me to write.”31 He did not have to remain ­t here long since he was soon transferred back to Saint-­Denis, where he made new enemies by casting doubt on w ­ hether Saint Dionysius, the founder of the abbey, was r­eally the same person as Bishop Dionysius (the Areopagite) of Athens. New disciplinary mea­sures ­were lined up for him, but Peter took flight secretly in the night in order to seek refuge with Count Theobald of Champagne (d. 1152). The passing of the abbot of Saint-­Denis allowed him some respite, and his power­ful protector also granted him permission to live wherever he wanted. Peter chose to set up shop near Troyes, where he built an extremely modest oratory dedicated first to the Trinity and then to the Paraclete (the Holy Spirit as comforter). ­There he welcomed scholars who, following the model of the ancient phi­los­o­phers, preferred ascetic fellowship with him to the comfortable quarters from which they came. “My students,” he wrote, “built themselves similar huts on the banks of the Ardusson, and looked like hermits rather than scholars.”32 Peter’s community lasted ­t here for five years, but opposition eventually arose from “some new would-be Apostles,”

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prob­ably Bernard of Clairvaux (the “secret pope” of ­t hose years) and Norbert of Xanten.33 Between 1126 and 1128, Abelard was offered the abbacy of Saint-­Gildas-­ de-­R huys in Brittany, which he accepted in order to escape his conflicts. Shocked by the lack of discipline t­ here, he soon came to regret leaving ­behind the Paraclete. He was especially concerned that the Breton monks would try to have him murdered on account of his reforming zeal. When Abbot Suger of Saint-­Denis forced Heloise and her s­ isters from Argenteuil in 1129, Peter granted them the Paraclete, a solution that was met with approval even from the pope. Heloise became abbess of the convent, and Peter served as her spiritual aid. In 1132, he was forced to flee from his enemies at Saint-­Gildas, and without resigning his abbacy he began to teach again in Paris. We hear l­ ittle of this productive phase in the Historia calamitatum, which breaks off h ­ ere. Abelard ran into trou­ble once again over his teaching and theology, and at Sens in 1141, he was made to stand before a synod for a second time and answer for his works. His chief adversary at this point was Bernard of Clairvaux, who convinced Pope Innocent II, despite clear sympathy for Abelard among the cardinals, to issue a bull of excommunication on July 16 and to have him confined in a monastery. Abelard’s works w ­ ere to be burned. To forestall the bull’s promulgation, Peter traveled to Rome to make his case before all the facts w ­ ere confirmed. But when he s­ topped at Cluny on the way, his health was so bad that the abbot, Peter the Venerable, had to take him in. The gracious abbot managed to reconcile Bernard with the seriously ill Abelard and to have the excommunication lifted. In peace, Abelard spent his last few months at the Cluniac priory of Chalon-­sur-­Saône, where he passed away on April 21, 1142. Abelard’s body of scholarly work, although not as wide ranging as Aristotle’s, was the richest to date in medieval Latin Eu­rope. In addition to his many significant contributions to logic, he contributed much to theology, including texts on ethics and other topics. ­Because he did not have access to any of the ancient reference texts of practical philosophy, Abelard cast his attempts to establish a conceptual framework for determining ethical princi­ ples as a branch of theology. Since the days of Heinrich Denifle, scholars have dedicated much productive thought to dating Abelard’s individual works, even if sometimes only relative to each other.34 It has become common to identify three phases of activity in Abelard’s ­career. During the early phase, up to about 1118 (and the catastrophic end to his affair with Heloise), Peter established himself as a teacher of dialectic and



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acquired widespread fame for his tone, methods, and formidable combativeness. The early Dialectica, once thought of as a synthesis of his life’s work, emerged during this phase, prob­ably before 1117. His interest in theology, which was then creeping into the foreground, also led him to produce the aforementioned Theologia “Summi boni” (c. 1120), which is referred to by modern scholars using the first words of its first book.35 The judgment at Soissons motivated his second g­ reat phase of productivity. His next attempt at theology, the Theologia “Christiana,” contains some clearly apol­o­getic material but also acknowledges some major deficiencies in how he had ordered the material the first time. This phase saw Abelard and his students try out the ­free life of the peripatetic phi­los­o­phers, whom they praised both for their works and for their habits. The new conditions of the 1130s, when Peter left Saint-­Gildas and began teaching in Paris again, led to his third productive phase and his final major work on theology, the Theologia “Scholarium.” His output and teaching at this time look ahead, above all, to the conflicts that would arise at the synod in Sens in 1141. We cannot delve deeper into ­t hese works, but two impor­tant aspects should be noted. First, we should clarify how, within his corpus, highly individualized texts grew out of activity other­wise typical of the schools. His efforts produced plenty of glosses, teaching materials, and student notes that are indistinguishable from other anonymous school texts. But we also see a growing number of works marked by the author with conscious signs of novelty and self-­reference. It is no coincidence that Peter’s works are the first in the new tradition to include the name of the author. Most surviving manuscripts, for example, contain something along the lines of “­here begins the prologue of Peter Abelard to the Sic et non.”36 Peter’s reasoning b ­ ehind such titles, as we ­will see ­later, was to promote his work and make it seem distinctive. Of course, not every­one approved. In his early Dialectica, he also made an effort to use amusing examples that poked fun at himself and his private circumstances: “Peter loves his girl”; “my girlfriend should kiss me.” We can imagine that he used such phrases in his everyday lectures, and they help explain how even his critics could report finding something of value in conversation with him.37 With Peter so focused on appearing dif­fer­ent, it is not surprising that his oeuvre struck a special chord.38 His poetry did the same. Over many years, he gathered couplets that he wrote and supplemented them with translations of common Old French proverbs. At the end of his life, he de­cided to make them into a “work” on the model of Cato’s couplets (the Distichta Catonis). He dedicated it to his son Astrolabe, presenting it as

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a personal and intimate work of the “real” Abelard. ­Others would use it and excerpt from it as they liked.39 The second aspect worth noting concerns the evaluation of the Historia calamitatum, which was written as a letter directed to an unknown person, in reference to Abelard’s other letter exchange with Heloise that occurred ­a fter she had read the autobiography. Since ­t hese texts ­w ill be key to our analy­sis of Abelard’s school, we w ­ ill treat them briefly ­here. The authenticity of t­ hese letters has long been in doubt, and in the 1970s and 1980s suspicion ruled the day.40 Since then, the opposite view, that Abelard wrote some of them while the rest ­were written by ­either him or Heloise, has come to dominate.41 The Historia calamitatum was likely intended as a self-­standing consolatio around 1132. But sometime before 1135, other letters (Heloise: nos. 2, 4, 6; Abelard: nos. 3, 5, 7, 8) w ­ ere attached to it along with a monastic rule Peter wrote for the nuns at the Paraclete. Th ­ ese letters, which cast the Historia in a new light, ­were clearly planned as a literary unit; as surviving manuscripts show, they ­were recognized as such for a long time.42 They could not have traveled back and forth in their existing form and must have been edited, unified, and coordinated with the purpose of creating a collection. The many connections and cross-­references—­not to mention the ingenious narrative tension—­leave few alternatives on the ­table. Reading the letters and the rule properly requires knowing beforehand something of the audience and the methods used to shape the plot structure. During the ­Middle Ages, they ­were seen as a unit meant for reading by the nuns at the Paraclete. They show how an arrogant man and a ­woman at the mercy of their sexuality followed twin paths of redemption that ended with them finding fulfillment in the monastic life.43 According to this logic, Abelard’s early teaching conflicts represent an early phase of the personal error that is the antithesis of ideal life in a convent. The same goes for Heloise’s startling advertisement for concubinage in the first two letters. She would rather, she writes, be called his “concubine or his whore” than his wife.44 Abelard stumbles into a long series of conflicts that arise mainly from his dual existence as a monk and a teacher. The move from the main abbey of Saint-­Denis to a cell, a step t­ oward the eremitic life, seems to offer a remedy, but his inner contradictions and his many conflicting roles prove too g­ reat to overcome at that point.45 By the end, every­t hing has changed. The two lovers, at first unwilling to become nun and monk, are reconciled with their roles. The “we” in the love letters gives way to a new “we,” which Heloise uses to refer to herself and her



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community of nuns. Peter is invited to instruct them in ­matters of the faith and monastic living, and a­ fter the love letters (nos. 1–6), they ask for something more since they foresee that his charisma w ­ ill no longer sustain them ­after he is dead. To this end, Heloise declares in Letter 6 that he should speak to them, and they ­will listen (loquere tu nobis, et audiemus).46 Such concern for the end of a master’s charisma, we should note, echoes the concerns of students in the previous chapters who gathered around eremitic magistri on the model of the new groups. The result in this case was that Peter provided them a rule that ordered and regulated the relationships between men and ­women at the Paraclete.47 The striking vocabulary of chivalry and war used at the beginning of the Historia can also be seen as a part of this narrative logic: the sieges, strategic feints, and troop movements (of masters and students), the recréantise (laziness; Verliegen according to Hartmann von Aue) of the lovesick knight or teacher. In a paradigmatic sense, they refer to Peter’s knightly origins and his early education, but in a syntagmatic sense they form the first step in his narrative arc from a youthful hero overconfident in his strength to a founder of a convent who renounces the world.48 Such a narrative structure immediately suggested certain interpretative modes to the medieval audience but also did not allow all the text’s inconsistencies to be resolved. One such peculiarity can be found in Letter 6, where Heloise begins in a sensual tone but then jumps suddenly to a discussion of the correct ordering of a monastery.49 It also remains unclear how exactly Abelard’s sociology of the schola is supposed to map out onto the normative monastic regulations provided in his rule. Let us keep this last idea in mind as we evaluate the letters.

The New Knowledge and Its Modernized Requirements Transfer and Catalyzing In our study of Abelard, we must ask what ele­ments of his scholarly inquiry ­were already known and what ele­ments of his learned practices resulted from change, intensification, and refinement. Research in recent years has tended to embed Abelard’s work and influence firmly in the traditions that already existed. Before that, and for a long time afterward, ­t here was also danger of falling victim to the narrative of the Historia calamitatum, in which Abelard pre­sents himself as a tragic hero who brashly stormed into the world of the

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schools. ­Eager for ­battle, he bites off more than he can chew but still comes out on top thanks to his incomparable ingenium. The truth was very dif­fer­ent.50 Abelard strug­gles to acknowledge any kind of debt to his teachers and constantly overstates the originality of his deeds. In real­ity, he spent many years in school gaining the tools that he wielded in his debates with William of Champeaux and Anselm of Laon. In no way did they just spring suddenly from his brilliant mind.51 This fact is often emphasized ­today, for example in the biography of Michael Clanchy, which casts Abelard not as an autodidact trying to chart new paths, but as a well-­educated mind who spent twenty years “in and out of the best schools” before he began teaching.52 Nor can the Sic et non, one of his most impor­tant works, be said to have established any new genre. It stood clearly within the tradition of collections of authoritative excerpts that he would have encountered at the latest when he studied ­under Anselm of Laon. Teachers created such dossiers for teaching, but Peter repurposed them for new functions. The preface to the Sic et non serves as an early witness to the self-­reflective character of the new knowledge; as a manifesto of its tremendously self-­confident and inquisitive—­but at the same time doubt-­based—­approach to seeking the truth.53 The characteristic genres of the previous two generations introduced in the ­earlier chapters remained relevant in Abelard’s time. In ­these texts, it was still difficult to separate what the master actually said during the lecture from what the students recorded. Gloss and sentence collections continued to exhibit a patchwork character, a composite of the said (by the master) and the understood (by the students in their notes). From the hands of the students, we can identify abbreviationes, gloss works built out of the teacher’s texts, reports from lectures on theology and ethics, and sentence collections with explicit references to the master (secundum magistrum Petrum).54 Abelard’s commentary on Paul’s letter to the Romans emerged from just this kind of teaching. Many parallels to it can be found in an anonymous commentary on the Pauline letters that often refers to the teaching of a philosophus who must be Abelard.55 ­These notes came to be seen as a source of danger in Peter’s case mainly ­because he faced closer scrutiny than his pre­de­ces­sors. The so-­called Liber Sententiarum Magistri Petri, which in 1140 earned him power­f ul enemies, is recognized t­ oday as one such collection of student notes. Abelard resolutely distanced himself from its contents and denied that it was his responsibility if his students failed to understand him or to reproduce his teaching correctly.56



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Gilbert of Poitiers, the defendant at the next ­great theological trial, also had to publicly distance himself from such notes. The opponents of the new knowledge, rattled by their experience with Abelard, seem to have feared that the schools would become not just centers of error, but also a means of disseminating dangerous teaching on a large scale.57 As we w ­ ill see, the b ­ attle against Abelard reached its climax just as the anxious out­going generation began to fear that his ideas might continue to spread through his students even ­after his death.58 Abelard’s name demonstrates once again the idea that teaching involved the assumption of roles. Odo of Tournai took the name Odardus as a teacher, prob­ably ­because his students used it, and the extravagant nickname “Abelard” also emerged about the time that Peter began teaching. His early teacher Roscelin called him Peter, but the nickname was beginning to make the rounds by then. It would spread throughout Eu­rope in countless forms: Abaalardus, Abaalarz, Abaielardus, Abaillardus, Baalaurdus, Habaelardus, and so on.59 ­These variations seem to indicate that, unlike our false modern pronunciation, contemporaries said something like “Aba-­helardus,” “Abe-­ alardus,” or “Aba-­ielardus.” Some also called him peripateticus palatinus, indicating ­either that he was a ­humble wanderer from Le Pallet (his hometown) or that he possessed courtly ease and a cosmopolitan philosophy (the kind that played well at a palatium) even though he did not have a permanent residence (peripateticus). The man was a walking paradox.60 Abelard’s practice of giving his works succinct titles to guide their reception also pushed the envelope. Most scholarly works at the time did not bear a title in the strict sense and w ­ ere called by some combination of the literary genre with which they ­were affiliated and the primary texts that they treated (e.g., Glosses on the De Interpretatione). If the question at hand was more central to the work than its reference to tradition, scholars could also assign a special title. One such example is the Cur deus homo, which was written by Anselm of Canterbury in 1098 and named according to its subject ­matter—­scholars indeed came to know it by this title.61 Abelard placed himself among the more conservative authors in this re­spect with works like the Glosses on Porphyry, Commentary on Paul’s Letter to the Romans, and Analy­ sis of the Lord’s Prayer.62 When he chose to employ freer titles following the new practice, he did so in ways that enraged his enemies. Unpre­ce­dented and outside of all norms was his use of the word Theologia to describe his three theological syntheses. Critics found it presumptuous, reacting with disgust or derisive remarks; some, for example, replaced “theology” with “frivology”

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or “dumbology.” 63 Similarly unheard of was Abelard’s name for his main work on ethics, the Ethica or Scito te ipsum (Know Yourself ), whose subject ­matter was foreign to theology. The phrase “know yourself” refers to aspects of ancient pagan practical philosophy, and he seems to have been inspired to use it just as he was putting the finishing touches on the work. He had planned the work itself for quite a long time, even mentioning it before it was written. So irate at the title was Abelard’s opponent at the time, William of Saint-­ Thierry, that he s­topped his own work in order to intervene. He found it “monstrous,” and the Sic et non as well.64 We can only imagine how his health might have fared if he had stumbled upon Peter’s Books of Fantasies.65 The recent trend ­toward academic reflexivity and self-­referentiality identified in the previous chapters had much to do with Abelard’s concise and distinctive titles. As in the past, this trend also found expression in the new knowledge’s self-­reflection on its own nature, scope, and limits. The old in voce position, which was attributed to the mysterious master John and claimed that dialectical interpretation dealt with language rather than absolute truth, took on a new form ­u nder Abelard as he worked on the all-­encompassing metaphysical question of universals. For him, universals w ­ ere not mere spoken noises (voces), but sermones—­mental repre­sen­ta­tions of worldly ­t hings that exist only in par­tic­u­lar forms and ­were not universal.66 Academic reflexivity can also be seen in Abelard’s view of his works as provisional and interim answers rather than absolute solutions: he reworked his Theologiae twice, and when he could find no more room ­t here for his ethical material, he split it off into a separate work. Peter steered himself between two extremes. He mirrors, on the one hand, Berengar of Tours, who wanted to answer his opponents but could never finish his response b ­ ecause he needed it to be perfect in all its fundamentals. On the other hand, he recalls scholars like Anselm of Canterbury, who treated writing as provisional on the princi­ple that one is capable of recording only the pre­sent state of t­ hings.67 Abelard’s solution was to conceive of changes, corrections, and expansions to his works not on the scale of individual texts but that of his oeuvre, his body of work as a w ­ hole. He constantly updated his works with additions and corrections, and ­either his exegetes would integrate them into their manuscripts, or he would produce new versions or full revisions himself. When Marcia Colish described him as an author never able to finish anything, she misunderstood him. Abelard was the kind of scholar who would have responded to ­f uture forms of dynamic publication with energetic enthusiasm.68



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When questions deserved deeper treatment, Abelard sometimes referred to other parts of his oeuvre. In his commentary on Paul’s letter to the Romans in the Bible, he noted ­t hings such as “we have gathered more on this in our work on theology” or “we have dealt with this more fully in the first book of our theology.” In the same work, he even references ­f uture works that at that point existed only in his imagination. “We have reserved solutions to the pre­sent questions,” he writes, “for treatment in our Theologia.” 69 He also refers no less than three times to his ­f uture work on ethics, which would eventually become the Scito te ipsum. Abelard did not contribute much to the intersubjective dimension of knowledge. When he referred to the work of ­others, he did so vaguely: “­there are t­ hose who . . .” or “a few have the opinion that . . .” The Scito te ipsum makes no explicit reference at all to any other con­temporary works.70 But Abelard did occasionally slip into polemic, as Roscelin and even some of his own students w ­ ere made painfully aware.71 Other forms of scholarly self-­reference, however, are quite pronounced in his work. Abelard was deeply concerned with establishing the primacy of dialectic among the language-­focused disciplines. Not only did he practice it as his guiding princi­ple; he often referred directly to it in his writing, for example as he reflected on dif­fer­ent modes of interpretation across subjects. For him, science could and should observe and define itself. Judging by his examples and analogies, he seems to have considered the study of the nature of dialectic and how it relates to other disciplines to be an indispensable step in attaining true knowledge.72 At the beginning of the fourth treatise of his Dialectica, a text that began with apol­o­getic remarks, he asserted that all true-­ false judgments should be subjected to dialectic analy­sis.73 Since his critics never slept, he also launched a preemptive strike against them, an “invective against one who rejects the study of dialectic without understanding anything of it.”74 He also laid out how dialectic could be wielded in legitimate and useful ways, and how the errors of the pseudo-­dialecticians ­were damaging the reputation of the leading science. In this way, he was able to cite certain of his own positions and definitions over and over, thus canonizing them in the debate. The same passage from Augustine’s De ordine on dialectic as the foundation of all disciplines (disciplina disciplinarum) shows up again and again in key places: in his invective against the ignorant one; in all three of the Theologiae (and so that no casual reader could miss it, in a section titled Laus dialecticae); and in his Dialogus inter Philosophum, Iudaeum, et Christianum.75

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New Assignments: Nature or Nurture, Young or Old, Loyal or Truthful By g­ oing on the offensive against his critics rather than focusing on apology, Peter raised the stakes in ways that turned the older academic imagination on its head. As a result, ways of thinking in the academic world began to realign and assume new relationships. Peter’s emphasis in his polemic on the elementary functions of dialectic, for example, assigned much new academic importance to the concept of personal talent. For him, talent in dialectic, in logical thinking based in speech, was a basic requirement for scientific work. Biographical tales from the previous ­century often described the education of “heroes” who possessed outstanding intellect, incredible perception, and a prodigious memory. Some of them had even attempted to improve their knowledge in depth as well as in breadth. A hundred years e­ arlier, when John, the ­f uture abbot of Gorze, read Augustine’s work on the Trinity and realized just how impor­tant linguistic rules ­were to the correct understanding of patristic texts, he de­cided to learn the subject from the ground up. He acquired the introductory texts “and threw himself into the hard work of reading them.” His abbot soon forbade him, however, knowing from his own experience that the young man might succumb to intellectual temptation not appropriate for a monk. John obeyed him immediately, preferring to be a proper monk rather than a partial scholar. In monks’ and bishops’ biographies, we often encounter the similar topos of the young student who visits the schools but—in proper form—­stays only briefly.76 Abelard also helped to shift perspectives about academic talent by causing friction with the concept of diligence and with the trea­sure trove of knowledge acquired through se­niority. In his invective against the ignorant, he argued that the talentless would never find success in dialectic even with ­great effort. In this way, Peter threw the naive reservations of the critics back at them, questioning their intellects. Their opinions, he says, should be taken no more seriously than t­ hose of Aesop’s fox who rejected the grapes hanging beyond his reach, claiming that they w ­ ere too sour anyway.77 Abelard went further in the Historia calamitatum by placing his ingenium in direct competition with the usus of his teachers. Men such as Anselm of Laon had read widely and taught for a long time, but they relied too heavi­ly on their experience and could not keep up with his genius. Their bulging reservoirs of knowledge made them valuable instructors but w ­ ere of l­ittle use when it came to disputing the truth and prob­ably even hindered more than



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they helped. Much like Augustine’s biting passage about Festus the Manichean, Peter’s characterization of Anselm of Laon, the most prominent scholar of the last generation, has become quite famous: “I therefore approached this old man, who owed his reputation more to long practice (longevus usus) than to intelligence or memory (ingenium vel memoria). Anyone who knocked at his door to seek an answer to some question went away more uncertain than he came. Anselm could win the admiration of an audience, but he was useless when put to the question. He had a remarkable command of words, but their meaning was worthless and lacked reason. The fire he kindled filled his ­house with smoke but did not light it up.”78 When Anselm’s students, seeking to probe Abelard, pressed him to interpret a difficult Bible passage, they advised him to take his time and to give it some deep thought since he had l­ ittle experience in their profession. Indignantly, he responded that he relied on talent rather than experience.79 Peter also offers a harsh verdict on magisterial routine when he relates how he became lovesick and totally enthralled to Eros. Since he still wanted to teach, he allowed routine to guide him though his lectures as if on autopi­lot. He simply regurgitated what he had said before, and when his genius provided him a moment of inspiration, he applied it to love songs instead of philosophy.80 But even drunk on love, he was still better than Anselm of Laon.81 Abelard’s view of the learned world was guided by the asymmetrical concepts of usus and ingenium. Opponents learned that an easy way to wound him was to hint at his l­imited ability—­his ingeniol[um].82 Since usus came from age, his approach upended con­temporary ideas about magisterial honor and se­niority. From h ­ ere on, we ­will encounter the clichés of the haughty, senile se­nior and the dumbfounded old man as often as the immature, arrogant young dialectician. The more the new science emphasized dialectic, the more it attracted wild, youthful energy—it has even been referred to as a “philosophy for teen­agers.”83 Abelard would surely have agreed; according to him, the Sic et non was a book meant primarily for young readers.84 One of the pillars of the older order described in the second and third chapters was beginning to teeter. In the past, g­ reat value had been placed on teachers transmitting correct knowledge to the next generation and on students responding with lifelong loyalty and love. Now, the opposite became true: students could pro­gress further and achieve even more than their teachers. The young John of Salisbury was astonished to hear Abelard claim in one of his lectures that it would be s­ imple to write a book like Aristotle’s De Interpretatione and to match the ancient works in their grasp of the truth and

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their elegant language. The main prob­lem was that it would not be recognized as similarly authoritative in the pre­sent.85 The idea that recent scholars had an advantage over past scholars was already well known via Priscian. But it still needed to be stated humbly and with a balanced perspective similar to how Bernard of Chartres had crafted his ingenious image of dwarves standing on the shoulders of ­giants.86 We have seen just how impor­tant loyalty to and love for one’s teacher ­were to the culture of the previous era. Both ideas continued to play a role at the new schools.87 But loyalty to one’s magister also became problematic insofar as it implied loyalty to specific positions. We have already observed cases of anonymous students questioning their masters and some who even considered the possibility that they w ­ ere lying. ­Here too, Abelard managed to get to the heart of the prob­lem: in the preface to the Sic et non, he advised students not to judge teachers based on any preconceived notions but on the rational quality of their teaching content. As it was written in the Bible ­after all: “Test every­t hing and hold on to what is good” (1 Thess. 5:21).88 In his late poem written for his son, Astrolabe, Abelard posed the question: when doubtful cases arise, should one’s teacher be trusted or the truth? The answer was obvious: “Concern yourself with what is said rather than who says it. . . . ​Do not trust a teacher’s words out of love for him, and do not let a scholar influence you through his love. It is not the tree’s leaves which nourish us, but the fruit.”89 Students could obviously form opinions dif­fer­ent from their teachers. John of Salisbury, who studied ­under Abelard in the 1130s and spent at least twelve years listening to twelve dif­fer­ent teachers, provides a good example of how comparing the authority of one to another could affect a student’s perception.90 ­Behind ­these memories, which he wrote down at the end of the 1150s, stand many conversations with his fellow students. The lingering fame of individual masters, including not just Abelard, but also masters such as Alberic and Robert of Melun, played a key role. ­These last two ­were seen as excellent examples of how individual teachers could possess par­ tic­u­lar talents. While the former could always come up with an intelligent quaestio, the latter was especially a­ dept at implementation and solution. Th ­ ese kinds of ste­reo­t ypical roles would appear again and again in ­later centuries: the empiricists (Stoffhuber) and the theoreticians (Sinnhuber), the cloud gazers (Wolkenschieber) and the micrologists (Mikrologen). It was also a delicate ­matter, John implies, for a student to transfer from one teacher to another. They had to obtain the consent of the former teacher or risk facing the consequences of his jealousy. Master Adam of Balsam (or Petit-­Pont), a celebrated



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teacher, was known for responding warily when he learned that a student was also attending the lectures of other teachers. He gave John the cold shoulder at first for exactly this reason but eventually warmed up to him once he got to known him better. Often leading to student gossip ­were interactions and minor details, such as the speech impediment of master Reginald de Monte, which Jacques de Vitry felt the need to ­later rec­ord. His students mocked him for making an “L” sound when he tried to say an “R.” Reginald nevertheless managed to win their re­spect by writing a lecture that entirely omitted the troublesome sound.91 Students pestered teachers about such quirks but usually assessed their scholarly brilliance apart from such personal characteristics. As teachers’ legacies w ­ ere relativized, the authority of their opinions was also called into question. Even as Abelard cited the dictum “Christ said ‘I am the truth’ not ‘I am the custom,’ ” he also contributed to the practice of assessing teachers’ opinions through critical standards such as reason, authority, and convention. “Reason,” he wrote, “stands above law, which stands above custom.” 92 Taking it even further: opinion relies on customs, which result from socialization. While it is natu­ral for us to accept what our parents and our ­family teach us, the phi­los­o­pher must be more critical.93 ­Others felt the opposite, that truth should never be weighed against love. One Cistercian preacher familiar with scholasticism warned his listeners that both truth and love must come together if diverging opinions are to lead to common ground.94 The idea that what is said ­matters more than who said it w ­ ill show up 95 again. It might seem curious that it was Abelard, the prototype of the “modern” learned author who so reveled in his victorious disputations, who delivered such a blow to authority. But it was indeed through him that many students began to realize that authority was subjective and open to interpretation. An old adage used by Abelard sums it up best: “Plato is my friend, but truth is a better friend.” 96

Sic et non: Domesticating Error and Defending Doubt Dif­fer­ent and Indeed Opposed From the time of the Church ­Fathers, it was known that passages in Holy Scripture sometimes contradicted each other and could lead to questions and even doubt on the part of the faithful. In Abelard’s day, a common formulation was used to explain ­these passages: diversae but not adversae. While they

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differed from each other, they ­were not necessarily opposed. The faithful could thus rest assured that a deeper harmony existed.97 Such formulations ­were not Abelard’s forte. His own collection of patristic sentences owed more to the theological traditions of Anselm of Laon’s school, which he took an interest in following the verdict at Soissons in 1121. Anselm’s texts stood out from the older florilegia ­because of their greater structure and their focus on basic ele­ments of Christian belief such as God, creation, the fall of man, Mosaic law, salvation, the sacraments, ethics, the end of life, and the afterlife. Studying ­these subjects was not considered a spiritual feat, and it is doubtful that it was primarily intended to help s­imple priests with pastoral care as Valerie Flint has suggested.98 A comparable collection known as the Concordantia discordantium canonum also emerged from canon law teaching in Bologna around the same time. The goal of this text, which would in an expanded form define the ­legal order of the church, was to identify “discordant” texts, or­ga­nize them, and harmonize them using learned dicta.99 Abelard took a dif­fer­ent approach in his collection: he wanted his contradictory sentences to “stimulate young students” to “exercise the utmost effort in their search for truth and to become more astute through the research pro­cess.”100 Such practice prob­lems ­were in high demand, and patristic quotations ­were seen as a “totally alluring way to train one’s acumen, a game which the master prob­ably did not want to spoil with his own suggested solutions.”101 As Peter had learned from Cicero: absolute consensus, understanding something with nothing left to figure out, led to boredom.102 Abelard also intended his collection to be a work about discrepancy (contrarietas) in general, and b ­ ecause he preferred catchy phrases, he named it Sic et non—­Yes and No.103 Its special character comes not from actually resolving contradictions but from visualizing them in a way that enabled reflection, study, and research. In 158 sections (quaestiones), he treats basic theological questions posed as affirmative statements combined with potential negations: “that faith should not be supplemented with ­human rationality, or the contrary” (Q. 1); “that God is tripartite, or not” (Q. 6); “that God has no substance, or the contrary” (Q. 9); “that sins also please God, or not” (Q. 30); “that God knows every­t hing, or not” (Q. 38); “that Adam was saved, or the contrary” (Q. 58); “that lying is allowed for no reason, or the contrary” (Q. 154). This new knowledge, which constantly reshaped itself, was directed especially at young p ­ eople. Intellectual curiosity and energy, it was thought,



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needed to be harnessed at an early age if a thinking person was to achieve more than just mastery of the existing canon. According to Abelard, the twelve-­year-­old Jesus had wanted to be found asking questions to the scholars (in medio doctorum) in order to show that the inquisitive pupil leads to the lecturing teacher (Sic et non 104.340). The path itself became the goal. The promise of a methodologically reliable search for the truth replaced what most ­people prob­ably thought was the promise of truth itself. This shift allowed Abelard to begin his work with a provocation. Turning the traditional saying diversae, sed non adversae on its head, he wrote that many patristic quotes differ and seem to directly oppose each other (Sic et non 89.2).104 The verb “seem” softened the claim somewhat, but readers soon realized that he was being serious. Abelard proceeded from the assumption that the Bible was God’s word, that it transmitted fundamental truth, and that it was wholly incapable of lying, but that it had also come down to the pre­sent day in contaminated form. He pointed out that the language it used was unfamiliar to modern readers and that the meaning of its words often differed from con­temporary usage. In pure Abelardian form, he reasoned that the text had been intended to be unclear so that exegetes would not let their guard down and not lose their interest in the text (Sic et non 89.11). But at the same time, he explained that the Bible preferred to use simplified language over learned eloquence so that it could be read and understood even by the uneducated (Sic et non 89.18). Abelard also identified specific philological errors: corrupted textual transmission (scripturae . . . ​corruptione; Sic et non 91.56), scribal error (scriptorum vitio; 91.58), and misinterpretation of the original Greek text (Sic et non 92.67). That Matthew and John claim that Jesus was crucified at the sixth hour while Mark says the third hour can be explained as a copying error, one that likely resulted from a casual misreading of the Greek letters. For Abelard, it was a ­humble gesture rather than an act of scholarly pride for a student of the Gospels to admit that certain passages could have been poorly translated or corrupted, or that something was beyond their understanding (Sic et non 92.83).105 Still more cases of uncertainty could be found in the writing of the Church ­Fathers. Augustine retracted ­t hings that he had written, and readers had to be alert ­whether authors ­were expressing their own opinions or ­t hose held by o ­ thers. Writers also sometimes ended their works with a question rather than a final answer (Sic et non 93.92). Especially dangerous w ­ ere cases where they unwittingly cited heretics. The opinions of Origen posed a real challenge for Jerome and even more so his readers. Did Origen say that, they wondered,

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or was it the opinion of the revered doctor ecclesiae? Abelard risked overstepping his bounds when he posed such questions of association to the Gospels: in the book of Luke, he asked, who did Mary mean when she said to Jesus that “your f­ ather and I have been anxiously searching for you” (Luke 2:48)? It must be Joseph, he reasoned (Sic et non 94.135). It was not only the prophets who fell into error—­even Saint Peter had to accept some tough medicine when he was publicly corrected by his “fellow Apostle” Paul. With patristic lit­er­a­ture demystified, Abelard is able to reflect on textual hermeneutics. He begins with phi­los­o­phers and poets who, bound by cultural convention, often declare ­t hings to be true that obviously are not (Sic et non 95.149). Their texts lack critical commentary, and so one must take into account contextual information such as the purpose of their writing and its intended effects. Rules of interpretation can apply to some cases or all of them, and understanding when they apply requires considering timing and purpose (tempora . . . ​et dispensationum causae; Sic et non 96.182). When dealing with contradictions, easy solutions rarely pre­sent themselves. Abelard includes almost no general rules in his preface. Whenever he seems about to do so, he breaks off as if unable to stomach it, which perhaps explains why he never established a lasting school.106 Only the most basic truisms escape his pen: when judging contradicting authorities, the older and worthier should be preferred (Sic et non 96.188); attributing an author’s errors to lying can lead to wrongly assuming malicious intent (Sic et non 97.211). Abelard’s suggestions for judging unclear biblical passages are also inconsistent. He offers three explanations at first: the manuscript is faulty, the translator erred, or one is incapable of understanding the passage. But then he added another one by showing that Saint Peter could err. The Gospels ­were too much even for a positivist like Abelard: his hermeneutical princi­ples make ­little to no distinction between the canonical Bible and the fallible patristic texts. The most impressive part of Abelard’s intellectual blueprint is his description of the research pro­cess itself. Placed at the end of the preface, it helps to resolve his initial provocation. One must first, he writes, gather the patristic statements that seem to contradict each other. “Together, their apparent dissonance w ­ ill bring forth the question (quaestionem contrahentia), stimulating young students to exercise the utmost effort in their search for truth, becoming more astute through the research pro­cess (inquisitio). The first key to wisdom is frequent and per­sis­tent questioning (interrogatio). . . . ​We arrive at the question doubtful but experience truth through questioning.”107 Sci-



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entific discourse requires looking beyond the accumulated mass of scholarly material. In this sense, Abelard made a decisive contribution to its development by emphasizing a secular approach to error and emancipating doubt from the stifling bonds of certainty. While both ideas ­were known to the glossators and commentators of previous chapters, it was Abelard who gave voice to their fundamental princi­ples. The Theory and Practice of Disrespect The Sic et non is not only a foundational text of hermeneutics but also an expression of the academic habits whose origins we traced in the previous chapters. Abelard saw the spirit of youth and intellectual curiosity as the basis of activities that turned doubt into the starting point of intellectual inquiry and a technique for discerning the truth. We w ­ ill continue to encounter ­t hese ideas in the praise of and protest against the young, arrogant, and dialectic-­obsessed semischolars, their be­hav­ior, and the ways they interacted with their teachers. Abelard’s student John of Salisbury l­ater reflected critically on how enamored he had been with dialectic during his youthful years in Paris. So versed was he in the subject that he knew it like the back of his hand. Although his better sense eventually won out, o ­ thers fell victim to their hubris. His own student William of Soissons went so far as to build a machine in order to methodically or­ga­nize logical conclusions.108 His young students saw nothing wrong with it and brought beans and peas to tally the yeas and nays and determine which position came out on top.109 Dialectical monoculture was often seen as an error of youth and a ­great danger to ­t hose students who got lost in it and never managed to extricate themselves. When John returned to Paris ­after studying abroad, he was disappointed to find that his former socii ­were still captivated by the subject and—­even more so—­t hat they had taken no steps to advance it.110 The be­hav­ior of the young students and masters was criticized as symbolic of the era’s lack of re­spect. As an alternative, some pointed to the old “Pythagorean” model of education, which required students to keep quiet and listen for seven years before beginning to ask questions in the eighth year. How did modern schools work by comparison? William of Conches, no traditionalist himself, made the following complaint about the new student attitude teachers had to deal with: “They now ask questions from the very first day, before even taking a seat. Even worse, they make judgments! ­After a single

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year of superficial study, they believe themselves to have received all of the relevant wisdom when all they have ­really done is pick up a few scraps. They leave school full of gossip and arrogance but without expertise. When their parents or o ­ thers listen to them, l­ ittle or nothing of use can be grasped from their words, and it is assumed that they are repeating what they heard from their teacher. In this way, the teacher’s authority becomes diminished.”111 Abelard’s followers w ­ ere aware of the ideal of the s­ ilent student, but they rejected it outright. In the same letter that prompted Abelard to write his Problemata, Heloise explained how Saint Marcella had not followed the Pythagorean model and had refused to accept the beliefs of her teacher Jerome uncritically. Heloise spoke not of Marcella’s unconditional loyalty but rather— as Jerome had also done so passionately—­about her zeal, the fire in her heart, her intensity, and her volatility. As the Church ­Father put it: “Any authority not based in rational judgment had l­ittle effect on her. Instead, she investigated every­t hing and subjected it to her sharp mind. She seemed more my judge than my student.”112 Before moving on, we should take a closer look at Abelard’s own pedagogical practices to see how much he lived up to this ideal.

CHAPTER 6

Abelard’s School A Social History of Truth Lifelong Schooling The Beginnings Abelard entered the world of the schools as a young man in the early 1090s, prob­ably a­ fter receiving elementary lessons in his f­ amily’s h ­ ouse­hold just like his ­brothers. His f­ ather, Berengar, was familiar with the knowledge of the litterati, but he was of the opinion that lessons needed to eventually give way to training with weapons.1 As with l­ ater bishops and abbots, such a progression out of academia was a common trope in biographical narratives. But Abelard was so enthusiastic about what he learned in his lessons that he went against his f­ ather’s plans and gave up his inheritance in order to fully engage in academic pursuits. The next phase of his education, which focused on his newly discovered passion for dialectic, did not depart too far from the chivalric world. Indeed, he saw logic as a combative art, an extension of knightly ­battles with other tools. Abelard’s description of his own conduct, as Georges Duby showed, conspicuously parallels that of an aspiring and unmarried knight.2 Up ­until his death in 1142, school defined Abelard’s life. However much his thinking changed during the course of his work, his teaching—­his life’s ­great constant—­remained firmly anchored in the dialog of masters and scholars.3 It was a ­great challenge for him to reconcile the everyday activities of his teaching and scholarship with the monastic-­eremitic lifestyle. In 1122– 23, he seemed to have fi­nally achieved this goal when he established his philosophical community on the banks of the Ardusson. Following the model of the ancient phi­los­o­phers, he and his students slept in small dwellings and lived on coarse bread and wild herbs. But this impression is misleading. While

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masters and students of his day certainly had a high tolerance for suffering, the eremitic life seems to have been too difficult for them in the long run.4 Some claimed that it was not pos­si­ble to fully integrate the lifestyle and goals of a monk or canon with t­ hose of a creative scholar. Hildebert of Lavardin had nevertheless urged William of Champeaux with moving words to continue on this path against all opposition. As we have seen in previous chapters, it was precisely this dilemma that motivated the masters of the new schools. They sought a godly way of life that both prioritized communal engagement with the intellectual tradition and could last for more than just a brief phase. Abelard wavered and doubted on this possibility, and ­because he always focused on the essentials, his writing contains some of the most extensive reflection on it. He originally had high expectations for the monastic way of life, which led him—­like o ­ thers—to become disillusioned with the convents of his day and to seek salvation through the radical, ascetic life of the hermit for a brief time in 1122. Soon ­after, he became determined to pursue intellectual group life without any care for material needs. Abelard did not rec­ord much of his early traveling phase as a young scholar in the 1090s. In the portrait of the Historia, it appears only as a single broad stroke: as a brilliant young man, he went about the country engaging in disputations like a young knight on his aventure seeking out chances to prove his mettle in b ­ attle.5 Abelard drew deeply from the vocabulary of chivalry, yet he also claimed to have lived like a true peripatetic phi­los­o­pher during ­t hese years.6 It was during this period that he also attended the lectures of several renowned teachers to whom he owed much but gave very ­little credit or space in his narrative. One of ­t hese teachers ­later remembered the young boy as “the lowliest of students” who had sat at his feet. But this teacher was also known to exaggerate, and so his account should not be taken at face value.7 Peter began his account of the schools soon ­after his arrival in Paris when he was beginning his lessons with William of Champeaux. Why so? ­Because his participation in ­t hese groups had led to the prob­lems that he wanted to describe in the Historia: “This was the beginning of the misfortunes which have dogged me to this day, and, as my reputation grew, so other men’s jealousy was aroused.”8 In characterizing ­these schools, Abelard paid significant attention to their social forms. We are, therefore, able to learn certain t­ hings from him that ­earlier witnesses left unsaid. In terms of methodology, it is impor­tant not to mix up Peter’s account of the h ­ umble settlement on the banks of the Ardus-



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son, which is central to any investigation of his ideas about education, with his ­earlier descriptions of the schools. We ­will consider the time by the Ardusson ­later. What interests us first is the everyday social form of the new scholae: their personnel, their roles, and the relationships between masters and scholars within them and between them (including competition). “Intimacy” remains an impor­tant concept for us. At first, we ­will treat it as in previous chapters, covering intense bonds and their durability (or lack thereof), as well as the admiration, envy, and jealousy, ­battles over rank, and formal and informal power relationships at the schools. But when we turn our attention to Abelard’s utopian ideas about truth and the ideal student-­teacher community, we ­will also add an epistemological dimension. We ­will see how the ardent desires of students and the spirit of doubt and dissent became the motor of perpetual pursuit of truth, and how truth itself came to be understood in the Kantian sense as a regulative idea and an ultimately unattainable goal. But let us take one t­ hing at a time. How Did the Schools Emerge? We begin with the masters who led the schools. Their decision to ­settle somewhere to teach is why student-­teacher communities emerged in the first place. Abelard’s teaching appeal did not rest on his fame: on the contrary, he founded his first school as a blank slate and worked to acquire attention and reputation through it. When selecting a location, he had to take into account proximity to other teachers. We can almost feel Peter’s excitement when he reached the heart of dialectical teaching. “At last,” he wrote, “I made it to Paris.” 9 It was hard to leave the city once ­t here. Not long ­a fter William of Champeaux enacted his plan to relocate his teaching to Puiseaux, he realized that he had made a ­mistake and hastily returned to the chapel of St. Victor. That Paris never again relinquished its hold on the scholastics became a well known tópos. The city was beginning to acquire a place in the mythos of Eu­ro­pean educational history.10 But it was no ­simple task to establish a school where ­others already existed—­a delicate ecological balance had to be maintained. Fixated on his competition with William, the young Abelard determined the location of his own school based on the location of his master. The former student c­ ouldn’t be too close, but he needed to be close enough to attract his own discipuli and to poach a few from William. He settled first in Melun, which was two

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days’ travel from Paris. But that was too close—­William sensed (presensit) what he was up to and worked b ­ ehind the scenes to keep his irksome student even further away. William could hardly hide his jealousy, which actually worked to his rival’s advantage. Peter moved his school to Corbeil “where I could embarrass him through more frequent confrontations in disputation.” (Hist cal. 6, c. 4). From then on, William’s movements enabled and determined Abelard’s movements. The field of action was thus constituted by ­t hose who ­were interested in it: learning about each other’s locations, they adjusted their actions accordingly. Abelard had originally gone to William ­because he was reputed to be the best teacher and confirmed it to be true.11 Peter wanted to challenge no less than the best in disputation—­such was the fastest path to the pinnacle of fame. The currency by which the success of a master was judged was his “honor.” Honor was expanded or diminished in disputation and was reflected in the attendance of lectures, including the glosses and comments based on them (Hist. cal. c. 12, 20). Being bested in a dispute by one’s student was not necessarily fatal, but one had to be mindful of the quantity and quality of the occurrence. It should not happen too often, as William of Champeaux learned. Certain contentious subjects could also impact the very basis of a master’s teaching. Once the basic princi­ples ­behind William’s position on universals were successfully challenged, his positions on many other subjects w ­ ere also called into question. Why come to him at all (Hist. cal. 10, c. 6)? Teaching brought honor, and honor could be converted into other assets. “The wealth and fame this brought me must be well known to you,” Peter wrote to his friend about his scriptural commentaries (Hist. cal. 22, c. 13, also 50, c. 32; 84, c. 53). Abelard talks constantly of his audience expanding and contracting—­t he barometer of success was clearly never far from his mind. Students took their cues from what they observed in the classroom: they admired successful lecturers and registered when one of their fellow students attended only irregularly (Hist. cal. 16, c. 10). Should they be offended? Or should they too visit the competing event just in case? As Abelard’s audience grew larger, his competitors (emuli) feared that it would both increase his honor and lead to their own disgrace (Hist. cal. 84, c. 53). The level of student attention seems to have remained constant overall, but now it was divided among competing schools. The bond between teacher and student was still thought to be lasting, even lifelong. Abelard still referred to William as “my teacher” almost twenty years



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l­ater without any sense of irony. William, in turn, remained a student of Anselm of Laon. A student’s students also paid honor to their academic grandparents, even holding their authority superior to their own teacher’s (Hist. cal. 10, c. 7; 12, c. 8). But Peter was dif­fer­ent. When he sought out his first theological lessons with Anselm, he tellingly refused to use this designation, referring to him instead as the “old man” (Hist. cal. 14, c. 10; 20, c. 12 twice). The norm of student loyalty seems to have been weakening at the time. As we have already seen, it was increasingly difficult to prevent discipuli from abandoning teachers in ­favor of competitors. Compared to the arts disciplines, where this change was most pronounced, the theological scholae ­were somewhat less affected. Focused on the tradition of the Apostles and the Church F ­ athers, they naturally valued loyalty more highly. Another new circumstance, or one that at least first becomes apparent ­here, was that Abelard’s students encountered him both as an author and in person. His commentaries on Ezekiel, in his words, “proved so popu­lar with their readers that they judged my reputation to stand as high for my reading of the scriptures as it had previously done for philosophy” (Hist. cal. 20, c. 13). He also wrote his third Theologia at the request of students who had read his work on dialectic before they even encountered him in person. Understanding Master Peter evidently required first bringing oneself up to speed on current topics before being able to comprehend his current theological observations.12 Abelard’s students seem to have been motivated to write down his early theological work, which is other­wise lost, in order to save it and study it ­later. David Luscombe focused on precisely t­ hese relationships in his early book on Abelard’s “school,” the discursive communities that emerged through reading and through in-­person classroom communication.13 Students and Teachers, Students and Peers Students listened to their teachers as they lectured but also engaged them in disputation. Being accepted by a master required patience, and poor conduct by a student could result in signs of disfavor such as ­t hose experienced early on by Abelard (Hist. cal. 4, c. 3). Disputation numbered among the regular practices of the schools, but it also carried certain risks: success, for example, emboldened the young Abelard to frequently spar with William, which led to a minor war of attrition in which the ju­nior party sometimes came out on top (Hist. cal. 4, c. 3).

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In hindsight, this situation was made pos­si­ble b ­ ecause masters had hardly any official authoritative capital at their disposal. Age was an “asset” that they could use to their advantage, but it could also be used against them. Abelard, for example, cast Anselm of Laon as an ambiguous figure somewhere between a venerable old dignitary and a senile old babbler (Hist. cal. 14, c. 10). But teachers did possess some informal capital. They sometimes had influence over who would get benefices with teaching responsibilities, and so it was advisable to treat them well, as Alberic of Reims and the Lombard Lotulf did with Anselm and William. We see both of them rise through the course of the Historia from the status of favored students and academic crown princes to the leaders of their own schools. They even tried to establish themselves as the sole heirs of Anselm and William ­after their deaths (Hist. cal. 56, c. 36).14 Flattery could help, as Peter showed at Anselm’s school. In his Dialogue Between a Phi­los­o­pher, a Jew, and a Christian written around 1130, Abelard tried to illustrate how the “oil of flattery” could be applied to smooth over relationships: one could praise the other’s fame, his ingenuity, ability, and knowledge of scripture; how he held up against all ­others; and how his admirable feats stirred envy and shone all the brighter through o ­ thers’ 15 jealous machinations. Such flattery was not pos­si­ble without a third party—­ the enviers.16 Students’ relationships with their teacher also structured their relationships with other students. To establish a hierarchy, it was necessary to prioritize the more se­nior students. But even then, it was not always clear since age also factored in alongside the number of years spent at the school (Hist. cal. 6, c. 3). The disciplinary shift to dialectic posed new challenges as well. According to logical thinking, talent held much greater value than it had at the older artes liberales schools. H ­ ere, we first begin to encounter the cliché of the arrogant young know-­it-­a ll logician, the intellectually trendy scholar who lacked any deep knowledge of texts or worthwhile experience in life. John of Salisbury voiced his opposition to this figure in two of his works (the Metalogicon and Entheticus), which also happened to include praise of Abelard. Students tend to joke when they are among themselves. But among Anselm’s discipuli, such playful conversation led to a crisis as their unguarded words opened the floodgates to self-­promotion and skirmishing over status. Abelard easily gained the upper hand with his audacious words, but in d ­ oing so he allowed the o ­ thers to eventually usurp his honor (Hist. cal. 16, c. 11).



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Anselm’s favorite students informed him of what was ­going on, and soon Abelard had made yet another e­ nemy. Elsewhere, Abelard’s own students showed sincere dismay when their amorous master wandered astray and lost his lust for teaching (Hist. cal. 30, c. 19). It was they who wept “above all ­others” at his bedside as he lay in his own blood following his castration (Hist. cal. 46, c. 30). Although ­t here is not much evidence that students remained in his entourage for an extended period of time, he seems to have formed bonds with some of them. In the progression of the narrative, they counterbalance the other key role, that of the emuli, his “ever-­present enemies.” Unfortunately, Abelard honors none of his friends by mentioning their names. In this tense arena, emotions unfolded that w ­ ere both the product of group relationships and the cement that held them together. We encounter affection, admiration, and love, but also—­and with equal strength—­pride, lust, anger, shame, aggression, and above all jealousy. Th ­ ese themes are constantly talked about, including in Abelard’s own academic works. In the Dialectica, they are treated in much the same language as the Historia.17 Peter’s reading of Cicero, for example, prompted him to theoretically anchor scholarly resentment within the knowledge world of the schools: ­those who let their intelligence run wild without any sense of fairness tended to become envious and suspicious.18 Schooling not only nourished the hope for insight and betterment; it also led to sadness and even despair. Abelard saw it as a flaw that the academic arena produced competition between reason and authority, and between cunning and justice. ­These products ­were reflected above all in the microcosm of group b ­ attles over status.

Truth, Probability, Boldness: Disputing T ­ oward the Unreachable Down by the Ardusson Abelard’s perspective on the scholae shifts noticeably in the Historia calamitatum when he arrives at the small settlement he established in 1122 to pursue an eremitic life. Normally, he used the term schola in a technical sense and in line with tradition: how students and teachers earned their bread and reputation through the scolarum regimen (Hist. cal. 22, c. 13). He spoke of “his” school and “his” students, by which he meant their shared lectures, discussions, and how they earned a living. What do you do for a job? I run a school.

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For the scolares at his settlement by the Ardusson (Hist. cal. 80, c. 52; also 82: discipuli nostri), however, he used other, not-­so-­technical terms. Th ­ ese ­were students who had left ­behind their cities and ­castles to gather at this barren spot with him. What unified them was more than just their common presence at lecture; it was their personal commitment to a comprehensive life plan. ­There, the intent-­oriented, purposive contract (Max Weber’s Zweckkontrakt) that usually defined classroom attendance was replaced by a status contract (Statuskontrakt) that encompassed the totality of individual existence.19 In the chapter dedicated to this group (Hist. cal. 84, c. 53), Abelard explains that its members seemed to be more hermits than scholars (heremite magis quam scolares videbantur). Accordingly, he chose vocabulary that emphasized both their symbiotic relationship with nature and their ascetic lifestyle. The first chapel t­ here and the students’ camp nearby w ­ ere built out of straw and reeds, and the students, who had left their cities and spacious homes, fed themselves with wild herbs and coarse bread procured with their own hands. Abelard himself prob­ably had much time for thinking. The exchange of gifts between teacher and student occurred in basic goods, payment in kind, and especially shared knowledge. Only when it became pos­si­ble to expand the settlement w ­ ere wood and stone included in the construction (Hist. cal. 80–85, c. 52). Sometime ­after Heloise’s death in 1164, a chronicler wrote revealingly that Peter had erected his coenobium “in a meadow where he routinely held his lectures.”20 Through t­ hese uses and ideas, the word f­amily around the term schola acquired emphatic force sufficient to support a utopian vision. Pure love of knowledge first seeks a suitable way of life, and then the desire for communal life is made real through collective intellectual effort. The group living by the Ardusson did not lack shape: Heloise recalled l­ ater to the addressee of her first letter (Letter 2, 128, c. 6) how the clerici sive scolares had streamed in and how it was easy to tell ­whether they came mainly for prayer or for philosophy.21 When Abelard reor­ga­nized his glosses on Porphyry, he noted in the language of this time that it had been requested by “my comrades” (nostrorum petitioni sociorum) rather than “my students” or “my scholars.”22 Their proj­ect was utopian in the sense that ­people viewed it as an alternative way for townspeople, canons, and monks to live their lives. ­There, ­people could seek the realization of ­free ­will on the model of the apostolic community described in the Bible. Abelard himself liked to say that they held “every­t hing together,” referring to the communal phase in the Acts of the Apostles. By combining teaching and learning in their community with man-



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ual ­labor, asceticism, and poverty, they immunized themselves against the distractions of the world. Abelard often cited from Jerome and, like him, used the world of Greek philosophy to illustrate t­ hese ideas. ­Those versed in medieval utopian thought ­will not be surprised that Peter’s vision placed the model of monks and hermits in the foreground. As late as Thomas More’s Utopia (1516), the monastic world was still recognized by many as a nexus for premodern ideas of this kind.23 What is remarkable and worthy of emphasis ­here is that a community that took ­these idealistic dreams seriously emerged as early as 1122, if only for a short time. Like other settlements of hermits, it proved too fragile and eventually failed b ­ ecause such a hard life could not be sustained.24 But while the small settlement by the Ardusson was not capable of serving as the nucleus for f­ uture academic organ­ ization, it nevertheless shows—­decades before the emergence of the first universities—­how life in social groups was essential for scientific activity. Staying with Abelard’s utopian proj­ect does not help much in explaining the gradual emergence of the universities. But in his other writings, we find indications that ­t hese activities led to a new theory of the social conditions of true statements, to a philosophy of science based on lived experience rather than content. To sketch this theory, we must look beyond the Historia to two other texts: the second book of his second Theologia, which contains his most complete defense of pre-­Christian philosophy, and the preface to his third and final Theologia. In them, Abelard outlined how certain conditions could enable student-­teacher dialog to erase distinctions between opinions and certainties, between the probable and the true. Of course, only God is truly certain of truth, but truth nevertheless motivated ­people, confident in their own existence, to try to substantiate their assumptions. Philosophizing as a Way of Life While living by the Ardusson with his student community, Peter revised his main work of theology, the Theologia “Summi boni.” It was this text that had earned him a rebuke for heresy at the synod held in Soissons in 1121.25 He had been criticized especially for including a large number of pre-­Christian philosophical references in the text. With this experience fresh in mind, he resolved to face his accusers head-on in a new version, the Theologia “Christiana.” It is curious that a work wholly dedicated to questions of the Trinity and the unity of God could include both sustained thinking on the position

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of ancient thinkers in salvation history and the degree of revelation bestowed on them (a major topic of the first book) while also sneering at con­temporary monastic life. Of the two, the jokes about monks are prob­ably more forgivable given his painful experience at the abbey of St. Denis soon ­after the events at Soissons.26 Peter’s thoroughness can be seen in his decision to dedicate the second book of the Theologia “Christiana” to ancient pagan philosophy and its proximity to the biblical tradition. From numerous saintly witnesses, we learn that the Platonic school was mostly consistent with the Catholic faith, a position that was ­later difficult to retreat from.27 He did not argue that all pagan texts should be used freely, as certain thinkers in the Christian tradition such as Origen had erroneously held, but that the teaching of the Platonic school was undeniably valuable and should be acceptable for use in theological discourse. Peter’s desire to justify the use of pagan lit­er­a­ture once and for all comes to the forefront in the second book. If the Apostles and Church ­Fathers had done so too, how could it be wrong? Pagan phi­los­o­phers ­were eligible for salvation a­ fter all, and they believed in the immortality of the soul and in reward and retribution in the afterlife. Although they ­were not capable of realizing it themselves, their goals w ­ ere essentially Christian. They ­were also right about many ­t hings: Horace, for example, believed that it was a positive impulse, namely the love of virtue, that caused good ­people to despise sin.28 For Peter, the ability to recognize the truth was tied closely to the philosophical doctrine of virtue and the virtuous lifestyle of the individual, both of which s­ haped the Greek philosophical schools. In his view, philosophizing and uncovering the hidden ­causes of ­t hings required at the beginning a corresponding set of ethics. ­These ethics also explain how early phi­los­o­phers ­were able to live quasi-­evangelical lives even though they knew nothing of Christ. In the Historia calamitatum, it was Heloise who introduced ­t hese ideas in connection with Abelard’s marriage plans. She called the relevant princi­ ple a vitae religio: philosophizing did not mean adhering to any specific body of knowledge but rather living life appropriately (Hist. cal. 40, c. 26). To r­ eally understand what this lifestyle entailed required investigating the communities of ancient phi­los­o­phers who managed to arrive at correct conclusions about ethical questions and proper living even though they knew nothing of Christ. Poverty, good intentions, humility, and an uncompromising search for truth helped the pagan phi­los­o­phers achieve true understanding, which



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in turn enabled correct moral judgment and a godly way of life even without direct knowledge of God.29 The adoption of monastic and eremitic ideals was thus warranted, and in the academic world it manifested as a “return of learned anchoritism.”30 In the com­pany of like-­minded ­people, escape from society became much easier to bear. According to Abelard, the philosophical way of life possessed both ascetic and social aspects. Luisa Valente has investigated them, especially their models.31 We find a preference for solitude and abstinence but also concern for the state (res publica), for its citizens (cives), and for civic life (civium . . . ​ conviventium).32 Cities w ­ ere seen as conventus, which, according to the apostolic model, held “every­thing in common.” Urban communities provided fertile ground for philosophizing since they ­were divided up and or­ga­nized based on the virtues of love (caritas) and equity (aequitas), and b ­ ecause they enabled ­people to think in terms of isolation and community all at once. Solitude also prevented distractions of the senses. Plato had intentionally founded his acad­emy in a plague-­infested area rather than a wasteland so that his students would not be tempted by any other plea­sure than t­ hose offered by the material.33 Life in the community could also be meaningful—it taught every­ one, including ­t hose in charge, to be ­humble. Knowledge seekers ­were encouraged to discard the “excessively arrogant” individual label of “wise one” (sapiens) in ­favor of “truth lover” or “seeker of the truth” (philosophus). Humility not only guided interactions between ­people; it was also an object of reflection in itself. The role of the teacher was affected too since Christ’s negative assessment of the Pharisees and of the scribes taught that speech and life needed to exist in harmony. As the Gospel of Matthew put it: “Nor s­ hall you to be called teachers, for you have but one teacher—­Christ” (Matt. 23:10).34 Boldness in Humility: Intimacy Between Students, Teachers, and the Object of Research One still had to eat. It was poverty that eventually forced Abelard and his discipuli to establish a proper school and return to conventional communal forms and lectures. He again achieved fame for his teaching, and his activities in Paris in the 1130s ­were registered by con­temporary witnesses with both admiration and growing hostility. ­These scholae, or at least their outer appearances, are what eventually led to his second condemnation in 1141. In the third version of the Theologia written at the end of the 1130s, Abelard devoted brief but meaningful remarks to the relations between teachers,

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students, and the object of their intellectual pursuit—­t he truth. ­These remarks demonstrate how the social relationships described in ­earlier chapters as “intimate” w ­ ere undergoing change. We have already seen that the ideal of loyalty of student to teacher remained pre­sent on the level of explicit norms, but that it was being eroded through the addition of new content and altered realities. The formal subordination of students to the master’s authority also remained pre­sent, as did the potential energy that was inherent in competition over position, attention, and recognition. Wherever correct knowledge was being handled, ­t here was still much talk of the third person: of adversaries, of enviers, and of rivals in competing positions. Randall Collins’s observation that creativity emerged out of rivalry rather than harmony is proven true h ­ ere again and again.35 Even when no apparent rivals appeared on the horizon, insistent authors w ­ ere happy to supply them. A new ele­ment in the schools of the late eleventh ­century, as we saw, was the increased willingness of students to express doubt about their teachers’ opinions in commentaries on basic texts. The wrong answer and the argumentative m ­ istake w ­ ere, so to speak, secularized. Furthermore, an “operative” understanding of error allowed for teachers to advance false doctrine without necessarily diminishing their moral reputation.36 While we encountered circumstantial evidence for this change in Chapter 4, Abelard gave full expression to its basic princi­ples. Peter’s own biography reveals changes in his thought. In the narrative arc of the Historia, we find hints of a gradual shift in emphasis from dialectic to theology while he was at the schools. Peter von Moos has also shown how his work came to incorporate a new dimension beyond the usual praise of dialectic—­the scientia scientiarum—­and the standard optimistic assessments of its effectiveness at discerning truth, necessity, and ratio. Abelard managed to do so primarily through sustained reflection on what was generally held to be true or probable (endoxon, probabile), on the “opinionated types,” and on the status of authorities.37 Through his works on philosophy, and even more so t­ hose on theology, he rendered suitable for theoretical analy­sis subjects such as common opinion (opinio hominum), appearances and ambiguities (ambiguum), and the opposition between the inner and the outer. ­Because ­human knowledge is totally dependent on the senses, it produces opinions rather than perfect discernment. It must “stop apophatically” before the “religious mystery” and call on a dif­fer­ent way of thinking.38 Opinion, which replaces knowledge when certainty remains elusive, has positive connotations in most theological writing. Something like it was rec-



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ognized in the faith of the Christian believer, although the two w ­ ere not directly or uncritically connected. God is certainly capable of pure perception, but mankind can grasp only t­ hose ideas, opinions, and knowledge accessible to ­human reason. Peter’s own statements of opinio have been described as “humility formulae,” for example his “own ­humble judgment” or his “personal view on t­ hings.”39 Such expressions were not meant to imply mere epistemological impulse. As Peter von Moos has argued, teachers ­were accountable to three entities for their ideas: to their students, to the larger Christian community, and to God himself. While we also subscribe to this perspective, we ­will modify it in a way that places the social dimension at the center of the cognitive pro­cess. Like Moos, we ­will focus on the short preface to the third version of Peter’s theology, the Theologia “Scholarium,” written at the end of the 1130s. Striving a­ fter the truth, or at least a­ fter reasoned opinions, is accomplished through the interaction of three quantities: teacher, students, and the object of reflection. ­Because this last ­factor was potentially unachievable, it was thought to be especially dynamic. B ­ ehind the object stands the assumption of truth, which both supplies methodologically sound procedures and provides the only assurance that some approximation of the truth is pos­si­ble to achieve. This development added a third f­actor into the old “intimate” relationship between student and teacher. In the pro­cess, loyalty to one’s teacher and the furthering of the student became subject to the requirements of truth as expressed in the old adage “Plato is my friend, but truth is a better friend.” Error, new insight, and contradiction even up the point of negating what had been said formed a course that could be traversed only in dialog between teacher and student. No longer did knowledge consist of propositions cleanly imprinted into the mind of the student like a seal into wax. It was now developed and acquired through a deliberate pro­cess whose methodology ­future generations would continue to refine through disputation.40 Abelard condensed t­ hese thoughts into the introduction to his Theologia “Scholarium.” The proj­ect began when his students, who had read his ­earlier philosophical writing, stubbornly pressed him to compose “a summa of holy education and an introduction to divine scripture.” He began with a pledge “to teach not so much the truth but to explain the sense of our opinion, as they demanded” (opinionis nostrae sensum, quem efflagitant, exponentes).41 The students’ arguments ­here are alarmingly conservative in some re­ spects: they talk as if their philosophical ­careers have zero prospects ­unless they “end their studies in God, to whom all ­things are necessarily connected.”

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As their understanding of the faith gives rise to ever more difficult questions, they fret about the need to strengthen the “bulwarks of reason” against them. ­Here, the figure of a “third person,” the one who forces bound­aries onto the intimate knowledge community, is surprisingly played by the phi­los­o­phers, or rather by ­people who claim to be such (se philosophos profitentur). ­These ­people, who believe they have already found truth, are given no place in the new epistemological triangle. They belong to the other, to the alternative world of intellectual self-­sufficiency. Abelard’s own views on dialectic w ­ ere entirely consistent with this perspective. Already in his letter to ­t hose ignorant of dialectic, he distinguished between the diligent h ­ andling of logic and sophistical misuse (called “hyper-­dialectic” by scholars).42 The students, with words being put into their mouths, then venture into indiscrete territory. Aware of Peter’s eremitic and monastic efforts, they urge him to abandon the winning of souls once and for all and to focus instead on teaching for monetary gain. Pressing their case, they at last win his approval “if not through their reason, then through their audacity.” Abelard claims that he ­will give them “what they want” and that any errors in the book are his alone. Should he deviate from the Catholic understanding of the faith, he has no objection to being corrected. He explains this sentiment at length with reference to Augustine’s late work the Retractiones.43 He would gladly correct or even withdraw his opinions—­such is the risk that comes with authoritative speech. It was not his wish at all to defend a false opinion “through self-­righteousness or to claim it is true through arrogance.” The first attribute that the students demonstrated as they pressured him was audacity (propter improbitatem). Even though Peter ­wasn’t entirely receptive to their arguments about reason, they expressed them anyways. The idea that such audacity could be effective and, therefore, legitimate comes from Jesus’s parable of the friend at night (Luke 11:5). In it, a man comes knocking at the door at midnight asking for bread and eventually receives it “due to his shameless insistence.” Jesus eagerly approves this breach of convention. Ask and you s­ hall receive, he says. Seek and you s­ hall find. Knock and the door ­shall be opened to you (even at midnight as your sleepy friend gives in, staggers to the door, and hands over the darned bread).44 The triad of teacher, student, and their perception of truth also produced dynamic change within the first two ele­ments. The teacher committed to searching for the best justifiable opinion (a tentative approach ­toward the truth) knowing full well that it was subject to the ­human tendency to err. Meanwhile, the students changed themselves according to Augustine’s idea



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of the “inner teacher” who “teaches whomever he wants without even making a sound.” 45 ­After all, who would be so foolish, Augustine asked, to send their son to a school just to learn what the teacher thinks? A good teacher should motivate students to look for their “inner truth.” The true moment of learning is not when the student listens to the teacher’s words but when, with the passing of time, he ponders what was said. In Augustine’s words: “When they have discovered within themselves that the truth has been said, they ­will give praise.” 46 More than a hundred years ­later, in Bonaventure’s era, the word ­family around intimus acquired an abstract noun—­intimitas. This term, which denoted a state of interiority, marked a new understanding of the thought as intersubjective.47 Already in our time, the path was being paved by recognition that one’s social community could spur the quest for truth. For Abelard, this realization came through the pushing and shoving of his audacious students. Through teaching, lectures, and disputations, philosophical knowledge aged and matured. While speaking and teaching ­were necessary to this pro­cess, the essential act took place inside the participants themselves.

The New Scholarship U ­ nder Fire Walter of Mortagne and Abelard Abelard had been u ­ nder surveillance for quite a while when he recorded ­these thoughts in the preface to the Theologia “Scholarium.” He had first encountered skepticism and opposition when he presumed to argue theological questions using dialectic methods in the circle of Anselm of Laon. But this early opposition was not nearly as fierce as that exhibited l­ ater by Bernard of Clairvaux, which as Arno Borst has shown, began to pick up in the late 1130s owing to his concern that Abelard’s teaching would spread to his own students and a­ depts. He was aided at first by mediocre figures like Hugo Metellus, who was driven by the fear that Abelard’s brash and rebellious students would soon overwhelm them.48 This fear was not entirely unfounded: exaggerated opinion pieces authored by students could not be recalled once they w ­ ere in circulation. Unlike us, Peter’s critics w ­ ere prob­ably not aware of the connection between social ideas and epistemology. Associating the two was actually liable to create trou­ble, as witnessed in a letter written to Abelard by Walter of

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Mortagne around 1136. Walter had also been a theology student in Laon and had not been hostile to Peter at first.49 Nor did he presume to lecture Peter, who he knew excelled all ­others in ­matters of Holy Scripture.50 But in conversation with Abelard’s students, he had heard certain ­things that puzzled him.51 Walter knew that such rumors ­were common: the opinions of students often deviated from what the teacher said. Sometimes, he wrote, disciples misinterpreted the words ­because of inexperience. Other times, they embellished the lecture with their own innovations, attributing them to the higher authority of the teacher.52 But in the case of the Theologia “Scholarium,” it was Abelard’s own words that certain readers found displeasing.53 Peter had not promised in his introductory summa to Holy Scripture to speak the truth, as they had expected, but “to explain the sense of our opinion.” Why would an orthodox believer need to lay out the “sense” of his “opinion” on topics pertaining to the Catholic faith? Should such a statement not make readers wary?54 Walter’s letter shows how the academic practices of the 1130s encouraged skepticism t­ oward ­t hose who tried to address questions of theology without being part of its group culture. Members of dif­fer­ent academic milieus engaged in similar discourses and worked on the same texts and prob­lems, but they also advanced from dif­fer­ent intellectual premises. In the passage that captured Walter’s attention, it was Abelard’s theory of gradually approaching the truth through disputation that seemed to be an act of intellectual excess. Turning now to the controversies that led to Peter’s second synodal condemnation at Sens, we ­will see further how new bound­aries ­were beginning to emerge between ­t hese groups and their discourses. William of Saint-­Thierry and Bernard of Clairvaux In early 1140, about four years ­after Walter wrote to Abelard, the Cistercian monk William of Saint-­Thierry sent similar letters to Abbot Bernard of Clairvaux and to Geoffroy de Lèves, the bishop of Chartres.55 William was surprised that they had been s­ ilent so far about the emergency that now required them to risk their lives and limbs. According to him, he had felt compelled to raise his voice in defense of the belief in the Trinity, the Holy Spirit, God’s grace, the blessed sacrament, and Christ’s role as mediator between God and man: “Peter Abelard is again teaching and writing new ­things. His books are crossing the seas and leaping the Alps; his novel sentences on the faith and his new dogma are spreading throughout provinces and kingdoms where



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they are stirringly preached and openly defended to such an extent that some say they are even accepted in the Roman curia.”56 William began by hinting at the previous controversy at Soissons in 1121. Since then, as we know, Abelard’s teaching had become more and more prominent, drawing ever more attention to himself. For this reason, he needed more than ever to be careful that the views and actions ascribed to him by his admirers and enemies ­were not being confused with what he was actually ­doing and teaching. William could rest assured that both of his addressees would understand the situation he was referring to. Recently, he had stumbled upon a book called Peter Abelard’s Theology, a title that made him curious. Another book was bound up with it, but he was unable to find its title—­a ­later letter by Bernard indicates that it was a collection of lecture notes by one of Abelard’s students.57 William had also heard of the Sic et non and the Scito te ipsum, but he preferred to remain s­ ilent about certain other obscure and difficult-­ to-­find works whose contents he feared w ­ ere e­ very bit as monstrous as their titles.58 What riled him up so much was Abelard’s method of treating Holy Scripture through the lens of dialectic—it was novel and self-­aggrandizing! How dare he render judgments on the faith when he should have been approaching it as a student? How could he act like a know-­it-­a ll when he o ­ ught to have been a follower?59 And yet, William did not see himself as entirely Peter’s opponent: “I loved him too,” wrote the Cistercian monk, “and with God as my witness, I still want to love him.” But the ­matter at hand was too serious for such sentiment.60 William supplemented his letter with thirteen offensive quotes from Abelard’s works. He also added a Disputatio adversus Petrum Abelardum based on Peter’s syllabus, and together t­ hese works began to circulate along with Peter’s Theologia and with the notes of his students. It was this bundle that eventually triggered the synod at Sens (1141) in the hope of providing a decisive end to the ­bitter conflict. ­There, the discussion covered not just the thirteen errors found by William but also Abelard himself, his body of work, and his teaching practices. The gathered churchmen even asked bigger questions about how bishops, popes, and synods should ­handle academic work. “So began the b ­ attle of the twelfth-­century ­giants,” Ferruccio Gastaldelli wrote of the event.61 The second prominent figure at the trial was William’s longtime friend Bernard of Clairvaux, who was thrust into a leading role opposite of Abelard. ­Later observers have often cast this early ­battle over the spirit of science as a fight between two men who stood for opposing

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­ etahistorical princi­ples. Abelard, on the one hand, represents ­free science m unencumbered by rules and requirements. Bernard, on the other hand, argues for ­humble and pious faith, for introspection, and for approaching God through the self-­discovery of mystical religious experience.62 They thus personify diametrically opposed ideals: the monastic model’s subjective approach to transcendence and the scholastic model’s objective science. William’s letter lays out a litany of thoughts colored by emotional appeals. He can no longer restrain his urge to rise up and defend the faith. He confesses his past love for Abelard but resolves that the current circumstances allow no place for such emotions. He admits that the novelty of Peter’s theology appeals strongly to p ­ eople’s curiosity while condemning the unusual practice of giving catchy titles to academic treatises in order to lure p ­ eople into his system. It has been common to judge the letter against the background of the trial, as a key turning point in the church’s tightening of control over theology.63 But at the same time, it also shows how the social momentum inherent in academic conflict caused all its participants in the trial—­Abelard, Bernard, the synodal gathering, the pope, and the Roman cardinals—to escalate the situation even though it made l­ ittle sense for them to do so at the beginning. In Bernard’s correspondence, we can see how the logic of the conflict forced him to abandon his wait-­and-­see attitude and his hopes of letting Abelard off easy in ­favor of a confrontational stance with no room for mercy.64 Bernard’s attempt to separate the person from the m ­ atter and to avoid a war of words with the author of the Theologia totally failed and then backfired too. Instead of being interpreted as an effort to deescalate, Bernard’s actions made the debate over Abelard’s doctrine seem like a proxy skirmish in the broader strug­gle over e­ very dangerous and undesirable development of the day. Chaos ruled at the Synod of Sens when it fi­nally opened a year ­after William’s letter. One attendee reported simply to the abbot of Cluny: “The abbot of Clairvaux was ­t here, and the bishop of Chartres laid siege to our homes.” Polemical letters emanated from the gathering that tried to discredit Abelard’s teaching and demolish his moral reputation.65 Bernard himself cast his opponent as pathologically afflicted: ­after toying with dialectic from a young age, he had acted like a madman in his study of Holy Scripture. What Peter called disputation was ­really the folly of a lunatic.66 Bernard also connected Abelard’s theology to other po­liti­cal threats. It was even more dangerous, he reasoned, than the costly papal schism of recent years (1130–1138) and might lead to a social revolution as had the preaching of Arnold of Brescia in Italy.



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A French bee had sent a honey-­coated gift to its Italian comrade: a new Gospel, a new faith.67 William of Saint-­Thierry followed up his incendiary letter by insinuating that Abelard’s “new” theology was connected to recent trends in the study of nature. Once again, a book title drove him up the wall: following Abelard’s Theologia, William of Conches had authored a Summa philosophiae!68 Abelard’s defenders also slowly loosened the restraints that had bound them at the outset. One of them reported in Goliardic verse how the officials at the synod eagerly uncorked the wine of the scholar’s lit­er­a­ture and indulged so heavi­ly in it that they soon began to nod off and snore like drunken old sops. When the word “anathema” (damnamus) was demanded of them, they managed to slur only the final two syllables: namus, “we are swimming.” 69 The practices and ways of thinking ­behind the conflict ­were already pre­ sent when William of Saint-­Thierry first put his pen to paper in early 1140. For this reason, we should not treat his letter as a prelude to the drama at Sens but consider instead how it reflects the forms of interaction in William’s cultural repertoire. We ­will begin to sketch out ­t hese details, of which only hints survive, by focusing on the letter’s most striking motifs: William’s talk about how Abelard’s scholarly practice deviated from tradition (as in the case of his novel titles); the love that many felt for Peter; and the fear that his brand of scholarship would win out in the long run since the last scholars who could confront him on equal footing ­were exiting the stage. Let us begin with the last idea. Most of the major participants ­were between fifty and sixty-­five at the time. William was prob­ably born around 1075 and was a bit older than Abelard, who was born around 1079 and was about sixty-­two during the Sens synod.70 Geoffroy de Lèves, who was first attested as a cathedral canon in Chartres around 1105, may have been the same age.71 The most prominent of the three prosecutors, Bernard, was born somewhat ­later around 1090. Despite their slight differences in age, they all belonged to the same generation when it came to their ­careers (and to the same class too as sons of the lower nobility). They had all achieved prominent positions around the same time. Bernard had received the abbacy of the Cistercian convent he had more or less founded in 1115. Soon a­ fter, in 1116, Geoffrey succeeded the g­ reat Ivo as bishop of Chartres. William ascended to high rank a bit ­later in 1121. Although he had taken monastic vows around the turn of the c­ entury, it was only at this date that he became abbot of the Benedictine abbey of Saint-­Thierry near Reims.72 Taking on responsibility meant having

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to deal with worldly affairs such as military action, lordship, tough negotiations, and po­liti­cal posturing, acts that earned them ­great renown.73 Geoffrey, for example, had made a name for himself as an administrator and an ­adept negotiator.74 It was not by chance that the attendees of a synod at Reims in 1131 chose him to recite their diatribe against Antipope Anacletus II. ­People of their social standing tended to follow the normal biographical path to higher office. Professional responsibilities weighed heavier on them than their literary inclinations. Bishops and abbots might lament their lost opportunity for contemplation and study, but it was ultimately of no use: they had to ­either forego their writing or shove it into the background.75 Duty influenced their intellect but also their entire habitus. Newly ordained abbots and consecrated bishops had to think about money instead of lit­er­a­ture: “immediately ­after the laying of hands,” they tended to become “increasingly fat” in their “cheeks and stomach, and even heart.”76 Bernard was an exception to this pattern. His charisma derived in no small part from the fact that, in addition to his other activities, he continued to write at an impressive pace and to produce texts whose literary quality was readily apparent. Geoffroy de Lèves ­did not write at all, and although William of Saint-­Thierry had ­great literary ambitions, he was able to create room for them only by having himself relieved of his duties on account of old age. In 1135, a­ fter fourteen years as abbot, he announced that he wanted to exchange militia for otium, noting how it had been customary for the Romans to allow sixty-­year-­olds to retire from public office. Following his spiritual inclinations, he traded in his abbacy to become a Cistercian monk at the recently founded abbey of Signy. In this way, he found the time to write again.77 Abelard’s life and activities did not follow any standard biographical path. He became famous outside the usual cursus honorum and never made any lasting compromises regarding his literary activity. He became a monk only following his castration, and the most notable events of that ­career ­were the conflicts, hostilities, and assassination attempts that monasticism exposed him to. His only lasting achievement in the monastic realm was his original rule for the h ­ ouse of nuns he helped establish at the Paraclete (a name mentioned in the Gospel of John and said to be highly unusual for a church). Returning to Paris at the age of fifty-­four, Peter reestablished himself as a teacher in the midst of a school landscape that had changed much since his e­ arlier days. William’s polemic was thus aimed at a man who did not view school life and writing as a preparatory phase on the path to higher office outside academia. While Abelard was not entirely unpre­ce­dented in this re­spect, he be-



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came a celebrity even among t­ hese new masters-­for-­life and was the first of them to author a large body of work associated with his name. Abelard’s opponents found his unusual lifestyle and productivity difficult to comprehend but easy to denigrate. When Bernard wrote that “this man is unlike himself,” he meant not just that his outer appearance and inner attitude w ­ ere at odds, but that his academic activity could not be assigned to any acceptable model.78 For the generation of Bernard, William, and Geoffrey, Abelard’s life seemed to consist of ele­ments that ­were each individually familiar but w ­ ere improperly assembled. For this reason, they took to calling him “monstrous.” The abbot of Clairvaux had previously gone so far as to lament the monstrosity of his own life path, describing himself as a modern chimera: what then must he have thought about the eternal scholar Abelard?79 Why had a teacher set himself up as a new theologus? What was he ­doing chatting with young boys and consorting with w ­ omen?80 He insisted on being a monk without a rule, a prelate without duties, and an all-­around dubious figure. Only in name and in dress did he resemble a monk. The participants also competed in the interpretation of sacred texts. Like Abelard, both Bernard and William had written on the Song of Songs. It was precisely this pleasant work that William felt compelled to break off in order to halt Abelard’s vandalization of the faith.81 Abelard was also not the only one of them to address the prob­lem of contradictions in the sayings of the Church F ­ athers—­William worked on this prob­lem as well. ­Things ­were changing by the year 1140. It was expected that the generation of Abelard, William, and Bernard would soon leave the stage as many of its great figures had already departed in the previous de­cades. William was seeing indications that Abelard’s biographical path, so compellingly unique, would establish its own tradition while the voices opposed to it would not. William wrote in his letter: “­After nearly all teachers of ecclesiastical tradition had passed on, the native e­ nemy forced his way into the unarmed community of the Church and snatched the teaching position solely for himself.”82 Bernard took up this idea at the Synod of Sens, connecting it to the damage the roaring son of a lion Peter (Petrus Pierleoni, the antipope Anacletus II) had caused before his death in 1138. The pre­sent Peter, said to be the son of a dragon, “took care to pour out his poison on the younger ones, trying to do harm to ‘­every generation yet to come’ (Ps. 70:18).”83 This practice was typical of the High M ­ iddle Ages. New collective structures and pro­cesses ­were personalized by tracing them back to a figure at the center of an anonymous group of followers. This way of thinking allowed

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contemporaries to grasp ­t hings, ideas, and pro­cesses that we ­today explain not through individual agency but through the inherent logic of the social sphere.84 Abelard’s opponents were as much concerned with these group dynamics as they were with Abelard himself. This fear that the modes of communication that arose in Abelard’s inner circle would live on ­after his death had far-­reaching effects. His opponents ­were wary that the theory of doubt he had elaborated would survive in a social body, in a new school form interested in the traditional works and student notes but f­ ree from the limits of in-­person communication and dedicated to a new idea of truth. This new idea of truth relied on the progressive growth of knowledge, on increasing intellectual returns facilitated by doubt and criticism, and on the basic princi­ple that questioners should be allowed to operate according to their own rules.

CHAPTER 7

The Pa­ri­sian School Environment Other Minds, Other Horizons Alternative Ways of Thinking and Working We have so far advanced chronologically as historians usually do. We saw how new forms of thinking and acting emerged between 1070 and the 1140s that enabled knowledge to begin to operate as a new epistemological practice. We also observed how certain group forms (including patterns of be­ hav­ior) and certain modes of thinking became mutually dependent. We found teachers and students on a common intellectual journey ­toward an understanding of truth they recognized to be at once essential and unattainable. We also encountered new ways of thinking about reflexivity and scientific notions of temporality, about the progression of knowledge into unknown territory, and about its relative nature when viewed through dif­fer­ent disciplines. Shifting our focus, we then observed that certain be­hav­iors that might seem like accidental side effects of social pro­cesses actually drove said pro­ cesses: love and adoration, skepticism and rebellion, competition over attention and recognition, envy and jealousy, tenacity and aggression, and the academic ritual of disputation that sublimated them all. If we continued on with a historical-­genetic perspective, our plan of action ­after Abelard’s era would be mostly determined, and our subject ­matter would sort itself into chapters. Much like ethnologists who take their first look at an African town and find it perfectly fit for publication, our course would be set.1 Further investigation of scientific theory, a central topic of previous chapters, would warrant—­even demand—­a chapter on John of Salisbury. Through him, we would see how a scholar who tried to turn his back on the academic world of the ­later 1140s developed ideas of the plausible, the probable, and the defensible into a workable theory of approaching the truth. Having a greater appetite for reading around than did Abelard’s other students, John found their contrived aversion to tradition

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annoying and became enthralled by other works (especially Aristotle’s Topics and Cicero’s writing).2 ­Because of ­these, he was able to grasp the relationship between reasoned opinion, knowledge, and communication better than even Abelard himself. John promoted his views quite deliberately during the ­middle de­cades of the ­century. In his Metalogicon, he laid out an interpretation of Aristotelian logic that saw “the probable” as superior to any demonstrative method of proof. Young men, he reasoned, ­were liable to become windbags rather than scholars if they did not possess humility, which could be gained only through re­spect for the intellectual tradition and by seeking salvation in the search for reasoned and tested opinions rather than absolute truths. Students could easily convince themselves that they had mastered the discipline of logic; as we have seen, some brought peas to class to count up the yeas and nays, keeping track of which side won. O ­ thers tried to mechanize logical operations with a machine.3 Such ­people wasted their lives swimming about in their own ­little worlds, John explained, preferring to drown in the material rather than moving on to worthier endeavors. When they lost themselves in dialectic, their skepticism took over to such a degree that nothing real seemed to exist at all. E ­ very scholar should have some healthy skepticism since it encourages humility. But logicians who took it too far ­were unlikely to remember how to use it to better their lives. At the end of this path was the ridicu­lous old logician who, weak in body, allowed his m ­ ental energy to wither away by occupying himself with the dialectical puzzles of youth. The old graybeard was an embarrassing figure b ­ ecause he inverted the Christian ideal of the wise young man. Christ, a­ fter all, had achieved the maturity of age by his early years. The old logician also served as a symbol for present-­ day ills: his outer signs of age masked a childish spirit that had never managed to ripen.4 John’s autobiographical reflection in the second book of the Metalogicon added the weight of personal experience to this warning. He recommended several strategies to avoid becoming too intellectually content: leave and study elsewhere, change subjects, and unlearn supposedly solid assumptions. ­These practices helped scholars to remain h ­ umble about their own knowledge and strengthened their resolve to avoid overreliance on their own intellect by seeking out collaboration with like-­minded ­people. Th ­ ose who did not take this advice to heart tended to find themselves in a state of total stagnation. John himself saw it happen among his classmates when he returned to Paris



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a­ fter a long absence: Inventi sunt qui fuerant et ubi—he found them exactly as he left them.5 Love and insight are equally at home inside p ­ eople, so teaches John in the Entheticus. This work was one of his earliest and was based on experiences (and prob­ably notes) from his time as a student in Paris.6 Prudence (fronesis, prudentia), we read, is the ­sister of truth and can be found only where correct knowledge and a proper way of life exist together as one.7 The learner who reads constantly and focuses his energy on tradition w ­ ill, in time, grow prudent enough to tease out meaning from even the most hollow and superficial phrases that emanate from this world of externalities. We w ­ ill encounter the specter of superficiality again l­ ater.8 We begin to see how reflecting on the categories of the true, the probable, and the social slowly leads to a theory of interiority. This state can be reached only by working with o ­ thers to understand the sense of words and to gather correct meaning rather than idle gossip. One must take care of his current friends and seek out trustworthy new ones who are on the right path.9 Such a lifestyle required models, and so John turned in his poem to the same images of antiquity found in the second book of Abelard’s Theologia “Christiana.” Sketching out a history of ancient philosophy, John envisioned a ­whole cosmos of schools each with its own profile. Through this “inverse adoption,” an anachronistic use of antiquity that is often found in Eu­ro­pean lit­er­a­ture, he worked to or­ga­nize the pre­sent in a meaningful way.10 Peter von Moos can help us once again by clarifying the importance John placed on the endoxon, or the general consensus. As a follower of Cicero, John emphasized practical philosophical thinking, a message that played a central role in his slightly ­later Policraticus. Rather than a book for princes, he wrote this work as a “manual on prudence to aid officials of all kinds (politici) in philosophically managing their duties within the ‘Vanity Fair.’ ”11 It was for p ­ eople like John himself, who had left school in the 1140s to enter the world of administration and chancery documentation. John’s own body of work reflects his c­ areer as a full-­time diplomat and administrator who combined academic study with personal thinking on ethics, and letter writing with history writing. As an author, he seems to have poured his soul out for only about a de­cade, and yet he still surpasses all his contemporaries in care, depth, and sheer erudition. We would then be required to add two additional large sections b ­ ecause our perspective on John would be incomplete without discussion of Gratian

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and Peter Lombard, ­t hose stalwart masterminds of the ­great early scholastic concordances and summae. Academic efforts of this kind ­weren’t for every­ one. The diligence required by t­hese proj­ects may have even motivated John to leave academia and to strike out into the practical activity of the real world.12 Parallel to John, a section should also be devoted to the work of William of Conches and Thierry of Chartres on the subject of ancient natu­ral philosophy. We would see how they cultivated a canon of ancient reference texts and opened them up by tackling specific challenges head-on. Among their texts was Plato’s Timaeus, which was already known to William of Champeaux and Abelard in the form of Chalcidius’s Latin translation and commentary. William of Conches wrestled with this text throughout his entire scholarly ­career, g­ oing so far as to try to decipher the meaning of the “world soul” and to bring it into harmony with his faith.13 Other key texts included Martianus Capella’s encyclopedic On the Marriage of Philology and Mercury,14 the commentary on Cicero’s Dream of Scipio by the phi­los­o­pher and grammarian Macrobius,15 and (once again) Boethius’s Consolation of Philosophy.16 How could we talk about William and Thierry without also covering Bernard of Chartres, who glossed Plato’s Timaeus and thus enabled direct access to Plato’s teaching by bypassing Chalcidius’s commentary?17 And if we addressed William of Conches’s treatment of Priscian, we would then have to speak of Petrus Helias, who supposedly in­ven­ted the summa, that lively literary form of the ­f uture that seemed so thought provoking in his day.18 It would also be indefensible to pass over ­t hose inquisitive explorers of nature who, once alerted to the richness of the Arabic tradition, made distant journeys to learn new texts. Adelard of Bath influenced natu­ral philosophy while Domingo Gundisalvo, who drew on the Muslim Aristotelian Al-­Fārābī for his encyclopedia of philosophical disciplines, did the same for the theory of science.19 Gundisalvo gained two crucial insights from his source, which he first encountered in Toledo. He learned of the unity of the sciences, and of the idea that all the dif­fer­ent sciences w ­ ere connected to each other through relationships that united them around a common goal (telos). One can see how impactful Gundisalvo’s intervention in the ordering of the sciences was just by looking at the introductory works of philosophy used in Paris in the following ­century.20 We could also dig into Daniel of Morley, who was interested in a form of anthropology and who also claimed—­doubtfully so—to have visited Toledo.21



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For theology, we would cover Gilbert of Poitiers, who was seen by perceptive minds like Otto of Freising as a more serious (or less accessible, according to some) alternative to Abelard.22 We might also mention Clarembald of Arras, who was admired by cathedral clergy for crafting easily understandable works. When Gilbert died in 1154 and it was not known how to approach his complicated and demanding doctrine of the Trinity, Clarembald was asked to write a commentary on Boethius’s De Trinitate in order to shed light on the subject.23 Fi­nally, we should mention Clarembald’s most impor­tant teacher, Hugh of St. Victor. Hugh sought to reconcile systematic and historical thinking and criticized early on the hype surrounding Abelard and the peripatetic school. He ostentatiously drew on a wealth of ancient knowledge and demonstrated the full breadth of his repertoire in the Didascalicon, written around 1128. In this work, he discussed a variety of reading techniques and launched a thorough critique of the arrogant young phi­los­o­phers. E ­ very reader knew who and what the author was talking about, and contemporaries gathered from it that ­t here ­were other ways to live a philosophical life besides ­t hose advocated by Abelard. Hugh called for re­spect for an intellectual tradition that reached all the way back to the Egyptians, emphasizing the humility with which true scholars of the past had lived and aged. He also emphasized the re­spect for academic bound­aries between individual fields that forbade the hasty mixing of subject m ­ atter and concepts. He also spoke of the arrogance of present-­day youth, especially t­ hose young men who liked to call themselves phi­los­o­phers and gleefully mixed knowledge with poetry.24 We could add many more to this group. John of Salisbury’s autobiographical account lists twelve teachers for the twelve years ­after 1136 alone, including the aforementioned Abelard, William of Conches, Thierry of Chartres, Petrus Helias, and Gilbert of Poitiers.25 Some of the other names are quite curious: a Richard nicknamed “the bishop,” supposedly a generalist who knew something about every­t hing; the subtle Alberic, who could craft prob­ lems from general princi­ples; his counterpart, the En­glishman Robert of Melun, who solved prob­lems rather than raising them; and his fellow countrymen Robert Pullen and Adam of Petit-­Pont. This last one, Adam, was wary of students who came from other teachers. Many opinions about him circulated among the students. Th ­ ere is also mention of a German named Hardewin, who was hard to pin down but was apparently brave enough to attempt the quadrivium. Fi­nally, we find Simon of Poissy, who gave decent lectures but was terrible at disputation—­even Abelard’s reviews ­were not as

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brutal as John’s ­here. Other student reports also survive that Richard Southern and others have used to reconstruct the Parisian academic milieu further.26 Many of the more prominent teachers ­were skeptical of the forms of communication that w ­ ere said to exist in Abelard’s school. Bernard of Chartres, who composed the famous dictum about how scholars stand like dwarves on the shoulders of past ­giants, outlined in elegant words the moral conditions necessary for successful study while addressing certain delicate points: ­ umble in mind, e­ ager in inquiry, quiet in living H ­Silent scrutiny, poverty, foreign soil For many, t­ hese open up the dark path of study.27 In a similar vein, Hugh of St. Victor discussed the moral requirements of proper erudition in a section of his Didascalion. William of Conches complained about students who listened poorly and posed obtuse questions while Clarembald sketched out an elementary grammar of dubious teaching methods.28 Farewell to the Eremitic Ideal: Urban Life, Notions of Antiquity, and Sociable Solitude ­ ese critics took part in debates over the new school milieu, believing that Th they could not just ignore the changed forms of interaction between teachers and students. For modern researchers, studying their thinking has involved tracking how they received each other’s works and developed them further, as we saw already with the gloss commentaries.29 Also impor­tant are the student notes, which often contain bold exaggerations rather than the actual teaching of masters. Scholars usually did not bother to address the targets of their criticism by name. A ­ fter all, every­one who read the third book of Hugh’s Didascalion knew that it was directed against Abelard. Over time, the proximity of the schools in Paris, and especially on the Left Bank of the Seine, caused them to develop into a veritable academic milieu. Rather than concentrate on individual figures (each of whom deserves to be examined more closely), we would do better to examine the social space they created together. So far, this space has only been hinted at in references to the school “milieu” in and around Paris. Even if we begin from the l­ater perspective of the university, which replaced the individual schools around



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1200, this perspective is helpful b ­ ecause we need to explain how the new science, which emerged in the wake of con­temporary ideas about godly life in solitude, established itself as a component of urban culture. It was not in the solitude of St. Victor’s chapel, a­ fter all, but in the urban centers of cities where the Eu­ro­pean universities—­every single one—­came to be located.30 Abelard and his contemporaries had already laid much of the groundwork ­here. It was they who gradually replaced the eremitic model that had been so impor­tant for William’s generation of teachers and for Abelard’s settlement on the banks of the Ardusson with a new ideal, one that was more sustainable than the older one in large part b ­ ecause it did not run the risk of being sucked into ecclesiastical conflicts over appropriate norms for monks and regular canons. This new model came ready with its own ideal formed from existing memories of the intellectual past, most notably the “po­liti­cal” actions of ancient philosophical schools within urban alliances. We have encountered this shift already. In Abelard’s eremitic settlement and his defense of the ancient phi­los­o­phers, in how Macrobius and the Timaeus commentary presented ancient ideas of the polis, and especially in the works of John of Salisbury, we observed how images of the ancient philosophical schools gradually eclipsed the ideal of reclusive scholarly life. The scholar was now part of an ideal stratified society: groups of thinkers ­were distinguished by their teaching, their qualities, and their rivalries, and they ­were embedded in socie­ties that they differed from in basic ways. In this context, they provided a model for how to maintain a distinct will and focus among ­people. Maintaining concentration in the hustle and bustle of the city seemed to contribute to the dignity of the scholar. “A happy thing is exile in a place such as this,” wrote John of Salisbury, who had just returned to Paris, in a letter to Thomas Becket in 1164.31 The format of John’s Entheticus reflects this line of thinking. The first part adopts an exemplary structure based on the idea that serious engagement with true knowledge follows a coherent path from the grammatically correct statement to the harmony of word and meaning, to the ordering of disciplines all the way up to the highest revelation of biblical truth. The second part, full of notes on the peculiarities of ancient teachers and schools of thought, offers a point of reference in the form of an ­imagined history of erudition. The third and final part, by far the most “po­liti­cal” section of the work, discusses the body politic as a precondition for leading a good life. The order of knowledge in the first part corresponds, in the best of all conceivable worlds, to the social order of the third part. ­Hazards to the epistemological order find

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their counter­parts in threats to the social order (such as the prevalence of arrogance and superficiality at court). On the other hand, good secular laws create space for true philosophy to unfold. The models ­here are Graecia and Roma, whose inhabitants could not be fooled by “rounded speech” (sermone rotundo) ­because they ­were accustomed to “living and speaking according to good law.”32 Along ­these lines, it was the role of phi­los­o­phers to live among ­people and for society while still maintaining their quirks and their peculiar way of life.33 One could similarly practice keeping their meditative mind on track by avoiding the temptations of ­mental distractions in the cloistered community. Model monks and canons dealt with being “in the ­middle of the crowd” or “mingling among the merriest com­pany” by acting “as if alone.”34 Only when science was entrenched in the city did this requirement become a constant. Concentration was necessary for scholars, but they ­were also rooted in a world of like-­minded ­people navigating the vibrant and busy life of other groups and associations. The ideal scholar was no longer a hermit, but one who made his way through the city debating with his peers. Knowledge of antiquity, always pre­sent in some way or other, served as a model for interpreting and shaping communal life. The wasteland that had proven so alluring to William of Champeaux at the beginning of the c­ entury was giving way to a sphere that made life easier but still offered scholars the opportunity to set themselves apart from their surroundings. Now we must discuss the scholae in the context of the city of Paris.

The Most Amazing City in the Scholastic Universe Twice Booming: Center of Monarchy, Center of Schools Paris was already on the way to becoming the focal point of the school milieu around 1100, when such diverse characters as Abelard, Robert of Arbrissel, and Goswin of Anchin began to show up. One power­f ul witness to the enthusiasm t­ here is the letter of an excited German student who had experienced William of Champeaux’s teaching.35 Young men came to Paris just as the young Augustine had come to Carthage: bright eyed and expecting to be both educated and entertained at the same time. This further expansion of the school environment coincided with the rise of the city from an amor-



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phous, unevenly settled area to the capital of the French monarchy and one of the leading cities of Latin Eu­rope.36 The ancient Parisiorum castellum, which was known as Lutetia up to the fourth c­ entury and was only regionally impor­tant, experienced its first upswing during the time of Clovis I (d. 511). The Vikings found it attractive enough to raid several times in the ninth c­ entury and even subjected it to a costly, yearlong siege beginning in November 885.37 Paris and the Seine basin again became royal territory when the West Frankish crown fell to the Capetians in 987. From then on, the right conditions existed for a close connection between the city and the monarchy. By the twelfth c­ entury, royal stays ­t here began to exceed all other stops on the itinerary.38 The center of the city was the Île de la Cité in the ­middle of the Seine. Densely populated with a palatium and an episcopal church, it grew ever more impor­tant thanks to the presence of the royal ­house­hold. The bishop’s church joined the old Roman praetorium in the fourth c­ entury while the Merovingian palatium appeared a bit l­ ater. A sustained growth phase beginning in the 1160s saw the erection of the new cathedral of Notre-­Dame, which was followed by a series of Gothic structures in and around the city including St.-­Martin-­des-­Champs and the abbey of St.-­Denis. Notre-­Dame replaced an e­ arlier ecclesia Parisiaca dedicated to St. Stephen.39 On the right, northern bank, the area between St.-­Gervais in the east, St.-­ Germain-­l ’Auxerrois in the west, and St.-­Merry in the north was gradually built up.40 Handicraft and trade had concentrated t­here since the tenth ­century. The macellum Parisiense, the fish market, was first mentioned in the twelfth ­century and remained active into modernity. A river port prob­ably existed, as well as a mercantile settlement and market in the suburbs. A merchant guild received a royal privilege in 1121, and from 1124 mills stood on the riverbank. Between about 1115 and 1125, a wall was built to encircle the area.41 The Right Bank was never a center for schools, but it was a place where one could seek out the necessities of life, patrons, and thus a livelihood. The Left Bank, on the south side, where the Roman city of the first through third centuries had been located, was devastated by the Vikings in the ninth ­century. Meadows and vineyards dominated ­t here afterward. The district around the abbey of St.-­Germain-­des-­Prés seems to have been fortified during the tenth ­century while the church of Sainte-­Geneviève was slowly rebuilt. Something of a state of freedom existed for the inhabitants t­ here: they ­were outside the jurisdiction of the bishop and of Paris proper, but they w ­ ere

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still connected to the royal court, to the cathedral district, and to the mercantile quarter on the North Bank b ­ ecause of the Seine bridges. While swimming on the northern bank was risky ­because of the mills, the southern bank had comfortable bathing spots. A ­little academic work enticingly titled Source of Philosophy rec­ords how scholars went swimming and sunbathing on the ­little bridge.42 According to Guy of Bazoches in the last quarter of the c­ entury, the l­ittle bridge long remained a place for pedestrians and for logicians to walk around debating. P ­ eople had apparently grown accustomed to scholars moving about the public space to a dif­fer­ent tune than every­one ­else.43 ­Every estimate of the total population in Paris is arbitrary. For 1300, cautious calculations place the number around eighty thousand while more liberal ones reach as high as two hundred thousand. The year 1300, in any case, followed more than a ­century of rapid growth. Paris in the twelfth ­century was surely much more modest. The numbers of students and teachers at the schools and the university are nearly impossible to count, although the lucky discovery of a census from 1329/30 provides an exception.44 The number of inhabitants in the bourg of St.-­Germain between about 1176 and 1182 has been estimated at around six hundred (in 121 ­houses), a number that soon began to grow rapidly as can be seen in the expansion of streets. The wall built u ­ nder Philip II unified the city like never before. Construction began on the Right Bank before the king embarked on crusade in 1189 or 1190, and it was expanded to the opposite bank soon a­ fter 1200.45 The academic community developed in three urban zones. Many students and scholars based themselves on the Île de la Cité near the cathedral school, where the canons rented out single rooms or entire ­houses for lessons. The early encounters between Heloise and her private tutor, Abelard, occurred in Fulbert’s rooms ­t here. The second academic area included the aforementioned “­little” bridge and the adjoining region to the south encompassed by the parishes of the recently abandoned churches of St.-­Julien-­le-­Pauvre and St.-­Séverin. The third and final area would eventually become the center of the schools and the university. It extended southward along the roads leading up to the church of Sainte-­Geneviève and filled up its bourg.46 Population growth on the Left Bank went hand in hand with the growing importance of the schools t­ here as the red-­light crowd followed closely b ­ ehind ­t hose ­eager to study and have fun. Bronisław Geremek’s work on the social topography of the area in ­later centuries is quite illuminating, but in our era such exact data



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are hard to come by.47 We do have some reports of scholars and prostitutes living in close proximity in the ­houses ­there: Jacques de Vitry famously complained in the 1220s that the scholars lived upstairs and the ­women downstairs. Teaching happened above and the other transactions below. Both spaces ­were quite noisy: the w ­ omen and the pimps argued while the clerici disputed among and against each other.48 It was precisely this duality that would define the Rue du Fouarre in the f­uture: it was at once a world of knowledge and a world of immorality, poverty, and disease.49 From this vibrant mélange would ­later emerge the libertine, bohemian world of the Rive Gauche—­a place abounding with romantic associations in the Eu­ro­pean imagination.50 The kings Louis VII (r. 1131–80) and Philip II “Augustus” (r. 1180–1223) strongly promoted Paris and with good reason. At the beginning of the thirteenth ­century, it accounted for more than 14 ­percent of the entire crown revenue.51 As a result, the schools t­here received support from secular and religious powers outside the local area. In 1169, Henry II of E ­ ngland sought to have his dispute with Thomas Becket, the archbishop of Canterbury, handled before the king and the prelates of France along with the Pa­ri­sian scholars.52 The active support of the papacy, which recognized the importance of the new knowledge by the m ­ iddle of the c­ entury, picked up during the pontificate of Innocent III (r. 1198–1216) and became a decisive f­ actor in the history of the universities from then on. The popes supported both Paris and the schools, although they visited the city only rarely and almost never held councils ­t here.53 The city became known as the omnium studiorum nobilissima . . . ​civitas and would l­ater be regarded as the ­mother of German universities ­u ntil the Enlightenment era.54 The first lasting, albeit informal, contacts between the schools and the papal curia emerged in the m ­ iddle of the twelfth c­ entury, when Roman families such as the Pierleoni and Orsini, and possibly the Capossi and Frangipani, began to use their contacts at the royal court and the Pa­ri­sian abbeys to send family members to school ­there. When t­ hese youths ­later became cardinals, they retained memories, friendships, and loyalties. As early as 1126, visitors to Rome such as Gerhoh of Reichersberg ­were amazed by the presence of “French” science in the immediate circle of the pope.55 Paris, already reputed as an exciting travel destination, was also known for its ability to draw scholars back to it again and again. From John of Salisbury to the late medieval Ferdinand of Córdoba with his photographic memory, every­one seems to have made at least two visits.56 Marie-­Dominique Chenu went so far as to claim that complex work like that of Thomas Aquinas could not have been completed anywhere e­ lse: he “could not have been

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understood anywhere outside of Paris . . . ​his natu­ral place.” Scholastic Latin even came to be called the lingua Parisiensis.57 A look at the names of masters mentioned between 1170 and 1215 proves that Paris possessed transregional importance as a center of education. Over three-­fourths of the localizable ones came from beyond the French royal domain. Sixteen came from E ­ ngland, five from Poitou or Blois, three from Flanders, and one each from Normandy, Denmark, Provence, and Spain. Ten came from the French crown lands, but apparently none from Germany. Although German masters must have been pre­sent, John Baldwin could not find any names to prove it. Some are likely hiding among the many unidentified cases.58 Good teachers tended to draw students. To study u ­ nder Gilbert of Poitiers, the highborn Otto of Freising came from Germany, William of Tyre from the Holy Land, Peter Lombard from Italy, and John of Salisbury from ­England. One student may even have come from distant Greece: a certain Ratius is said to have given his master lessons in Greek. The claim that Ratius initially had four students in Chartres and then three hundred in Paris is prob­ ably an exaggeration though. He might not even have been a real person.59 Paris, a Mnemotopos We ­will now explore con­temporary fascination with the schools in Paris and how they provided ­people a space where they could come to grips with the new science. As Jan Assmann has shown, creating social memory has always required spatializing abstract content and transforming spaces into topographical texts of cultural remembrance—­into “mnemotopes.” We ­will investigate how this topos played out in medieval Paris and its schools, beginning with the literary images scholars have constructed to reflect social conditions.60 In the pro­cess, we ­will also examine how modern historians have interpreted t­ hese images so far. Of course, the literary texts in question do not reflect historical real­ity with perfect accuracy. But it is safe to say that their authors ­were trying to use the tools available to them to reflect something of their real­ity. Let us begin with the Architrenius (“Arch-­whiner”), a verse satire written by John of Hauville, the master of the Rouen cathedral school, in 1184.61 In nine books, we get to know the young Architrenius, who, on the threshold of adulthood and unsettled by his emotional state, sets out in search of natura. On the journey, he comes to see a connection between the disorder of



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his adolescent soul and the disorder in the world in general. Wandering like a vagabond, he encounters lust, ambition, greed, and gluttony, and ­after stays at the ­house of Venus and with gluttony, he decides to visit the schools in Paris. From t­ here, he travels to the palace of ambition, the mountain of presumption, and several other places before fi­nally reaching a utopian paradise where natura teaches him about the world and grants him the maiden moderatio as his bride. The young man has high hopes for Paris, a place brimming with proud and affluent ­people. He imagines it ­w ill be as rich in books as Greece, as blessed with schools as India, and as full of poets as Rome! But what does he find? Poor phi­los­o­phers who are tormented by oppressive need b ­ ecause rich ­people want nothing to do with them. Turned gray by their restless search for knowledge, the starving men eke out a meager existence in shabby clothes and poor quarters. A few peas and an onion swim around in their bowls; they tire of beans and leeks. The wine they drink is foul. Our young man, searching intensely for wisdom, is driven by his insomnia. His unbound w ­ ill to know forces him to stay up all night reading and meditating; the oil lamp spoils his eyesight. Sometimes he makes his way effortlessly through the texts and material. Other times he chews away with the utmost concentration at difficult passages that resist him and deceive his understanding. He soon does nothing but study night and day. When he passes out exhausted on his books, he curses slumber for taking away from his study time. He c­ an’t even escape when he sleeps: ­t hings that drove him mad while awake seem clear in his dreams.62 Sleep deprivation numbs his tongue, causing him to lose control over his speech—he feels like he’s drunk.63 The trip to the Pa­ri­sian schools had clearly become a common theme in the culture of Latin Eu­rope. Even pragmatic Swabians made their way to the city of wisdom: To the distant clime of Gaul Studies beckon me and call; So while grieving Friends I’m leaving: All must stay ­behind. Mourn, my pals, the while I roam, Soon I’ll be forsaking home, Now ’t ­will not be long!” 64

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The ele­ments of the schools that received praise in letters and songs raised suspicion elsewhere: enthusiasm for the academic life; voluntary poverty for the love of new knowledge; and excitement about academic culture, its urban environment, and its mobility. The donkey Brunello from Nigel de Longchamps’s Speculum stultorum (1180s) came to Paris ­because he wanted a longer tail, and upon arriving he got a haircut and a bloodletting, bought new clothes, visited a church to pray, and then headed over to the schools. Leaving Paris was not so easy b ­ ecause it meant ­going home, talking with his parents, and answering questions about what he had learned abroad.65 In Vitalis of Blois’s verse satire Geta (c. 1125–30), an adaption of Plautus’s Amphitruo, a man who went to Athens (i.e., Paris) to train to become a dialectician loses his last bit of common sense. Returning home, he is able to prove with compelling syllogisms that a person is a donkey or a cow, but he fails to notice that his wife has been shacking up with his doppelgänger.66 The abstract thinking of the logician is in direct tension with the real world, where men and w ­ omen tend to get together. “Let Jupiter study in Alcmene’s bedroom while her husband philosophizes around Athens,” jeers the lusty Jupiter. Let Jupiter love while Amphitryon reads; the one disputes, the other deceives. The one plays with science; the other plays with Alcmene.67 The talk of illicit sexuality ­here is used for the same purpose as in so many other cases: as a signal for the foreignness and esoteric eremitism of an alternative way of life, ­whether it be among ­people of foreign ethnicities, in the culture of the guild, or among a secularized clergy supposedly estranged from its princi­ples. Deviant sexuality has long been used as a narrative signal to symbolize the bad be­hav­ior of the “other.” Social historians have sometimes taken a literal approach to poetry about the schools, reading into it the social situations of the scholars and the poets. Robert Bolgar’s thesis of the “intellectual proletariat” of the twelfth ­century has been especially influential. ­Because of the “crowding” of the Parian schools, he reasoned, most students who sought out masters to advance their ­careers did so in vain. In a world of growing prosperity, enthusiasm for education was natu­ral. But as the supply of well-­educated personnel exceeded demand, “we begin to hear of men whose intellects w ­ ere capable of dealing with abstract prob­lems, who could interest themselves in theology or philosophy, but who ­were forced to live unsatisfactory lives embittered by failure and uninfluenced by the responsibilities of office.” 68 Unstable life became a common characteristic, as seen especially in the enigmatic poet Hugh Primas. In Bolgar’s words, he was “an idle, insolent, greedy and utterly un-



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principled individual; but he was more than an individual. He was a type. ­Others, who lacked his poetic genius, sank as low or even lower.” An “underworld of learning” grew up, one that coincidentally provided fertile ground for Arabic and Greek knowledge. According to Bolgar’s broad brushstrokes, con­temporary fascination with Aristotle was an expression of a smoldering and seething society that burned for change. Bolgar was not the only one to severely exaggerate the situation. For his generation, it must have seemed like an act of realism to decouple Goliardic poetry from the idyllic notions of “wandering scholars” and to associate it instead with a social “underworld.” Even the sensible Richard Southern used the title “The Contribution of the Losers” for his chapter on Hugh Primas, the Archpoet, and the “ever-­growing number . . . ​of disappointed scholars of whom we know l­ittle or nothing.” Their writing was the “lit­er­a­ture of failure,” of vain attempts to bind themselves to power­f ul ­people. Stephen Ferruolo’s brilliant study of con­temporary criticism of the Pa­ri­sian schools was also unable to avoid hasty interpretation of this kind.69 When dealing with such vibrantly painted poetry as that of the Archpoet or Walter of Châtillon, it is tempting to take them at their word and to associate ­every utterance of the lyrical “I” with the author. But as satisfying as this approach might seem, we should remember that even though t­ hese works clearly engage with their pre­sent, they do so in a poetically sublimated form. They do not address knowledge itself but rather an academic mnemotopos full of worldly uncertainties. An Outside Perspective: Germans and the New Science We should assess the schools not just based on prominent poets and satirists, but also from a perspective with more empirical evidence. For this purpose, we ­will take a look at the other side of the Rhine, regions that do not at first seem to have much to do with the activities on the Seine, but whose strong connections to them ­will gradually become clear. First, ­there is the ­matter of absence: remarkably few Germans appear among the masters who ran schools in Paris. It is hard to imagine how this could be pos­si­ble given that the new schools first emerged in a time and environment in which three of the most impor­tant teaching figures w ­ ere German. The original founder of the new school type was the legendary Manegold, who slowly entered into the my­thol­ogy of the twelfth ­century. Master Bruno, originally from Cologne, taught in Reims but eventually gave up his position to pursue a pious life and to establish a new order,

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the Carthusians. Fi­nally, Hugh of St. Victor is thought by most modern scholars to have been a Saxon.70 Nevertheless, among the twelve teachers who John of Salisbury studied u ­ nder, the only German name that appears is Hardewin. William of Tyre reports even fewer from his time in France: thirteen teachers and no Germans. And we have already seen that John Baldwin was not able to find any in his survey of the years from 1179 to 1215.71 If we consider scholarly output instead of just lists of names, we do find mention in Abelard’s circle of a man named Herman who revised his teacher’s Theologia in 1139. Unfortunately, very l­ ittle is known of him.72 The situation is a l­ittle bit better when students are also taken into account. It has long been known that higher education was not the normal path to an episcopal ­career in Germany. Compared to other kingdoms in western Eu­rope, the German episcopate was more conservative, favoring lineage over education when it came to appointments and elections.73 Of the 646 bishops consecrated in Germany during the eleventh and twelfth centuries, only twenty-­five can be shown to have received higher education while fifteen of their number attended French schools. Connections mattered more: 210 of the 646 came directly from the cathedral chapter where eighty-­six had been provosts or deacons and thirty-­t hree archdeacons. Another sixty-­four bishops ­were drawn from monks and regular canons. The easiest path to the episcopacy was through membership in the cathedral chapter, not study. In France too, scholars did not automatically become bishops, but t­ here w ­ ere many prominent examples of such, including William of Champeaux, Alberic of Reims, Gilbert of Poitiers, Peter Lombard, Peter of Corbeil, and Stephen of Tournai. Another crucial difference was that in France, unlike in Germany, scholastici usually occupied the impor­tant administrative offices of archdeacon and diocesan chancellor.74 Why did Germans study then? Joachim Ehlers recognized a certain pattern in the biographical accounts of young nobles, their preplanned ­careers, and their education. The first step was elementary education at a cathedral school: Hildesheim, Halberstadt, and Bamberg w ­ ere quite popu­lar, as w ­ ere Cologne and Mainz for ­legal studies. ­These schools prepared young students for a “Tour de France” or for studies in northern Italy. Teen­agers then traveled abroad in the care of a personal tutor and, when pos­si­ble, with other students. They stayed at school for a while before returning home with their entourage in order to pursue a local ­career.75 Their stays in Reims, Laon, or Paris w ­ ere, therefore, part of a professional path planned beforehand.



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A report about Archbishop Adalbert of Mainz reveals how the reputation of the schools in Paris stood in the 1130s. For him to have studied in Reims first was seen as a solid but uninspired choice since the elite teachers ­were based in Paris. Adalbert quickly corrected course though by attaching himself to Thierry of Chartres in Paris.76 We can similarly see in the works of Otto of Freising, especially his learned excursions in the Deeds of Frederick and his accounts of Abelard and Gilbert of Poitiers, how study in France had influenced the young aristocrat.77 In addition to the aristocrats, who w ­ ere destined to rule from birth, the ­children of the lower nobility (the ministeriales), and the rural upper crust also made their way to the French schools. Their traces can be found scattered in regional rec­ords, which also tend to follow a certain pattern. Men such as Vicelinus of Oldenburg or Gottschalk von Seelau attended a French cathedral school, where they got hungry for more education but then experienced a major crisis such as a bad illness. This event motivated them to break off their plans in f­avor of life as a monk, a regular canon, or—in the latter case—­t he apostle of the Slavs.78 This narrative pattern clearly derived from the monastic model: the schools symbolize the refined and cultivated urban be­hav­ior that one must leave b ­ ehind when one decides to abandon the world. This well-­rehearsed topos had ­great effect when Bernard of Clairvaux preached it in Paris around 1140, imploring his listeners to abandon the schools: twenty-­ one answered his call, including the young Geoffrey of Auxerre.79 Less well-­ off students clearly benefited from the presence of aristocrats at the schools. Adalbert, the ­later archbishop of Mainz, maintained regular f­ree meals at which wine was provided.80 According to Roger of Howden’s report on the major conflict between the scholars and students in the year 1200, every­one knew at which Pa­ri­sian inn one could find “the Germans.” The ­house seems to have been maintained by a German scholar of noble background. The first evidence of a “German h ­ ouse” in Bologna appeared around a quarter ­century ­later.81 While many students expressed positive and enthusiastic sentiment, ­others struck a negative chord. In between, some did not outright condemn the schools but still lodged grievances from within the French educational world. They complained about the excessive interest in novelty, the neglect of the intellectual tradition, the arrogance of young p ­ eople t­ oward their elders, and the preference for disputations over lectures. Many examples of this kind can be found in the studies of Peter Godman and Stephen Ferruolo.82 This “internal” criticism, which sought to improve academia from within

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rather than reject its values, stood alongside the “external” criticism, which had its own distinct form and content. External critics categorically rejected the schools and their environment, as did Bernard of Clairvaux in his impassioned sermon about how students should “flee from the center of Babylon.” “Flee to save your souls!”83 New ste­reo­t ypes about student life played an impor­tant role ­here: youth, arrogance, blindness to the value of intellectual tradition, and disloyalty to one’s teacher and his knowledge. What about national or protonational prejudices? Was the new science based in the schools of the Île-­de-­France, and above all in Paris, seen by Germans as distinctly French? We might imagine so, given that it was common in the twelfth ­century to take up, modernize, and refine older images of the “other” rooted deep in tradition. Mutual perceptions of the French and Germans, for example, included talk of the unbearable arrogance west of the Rhine and of the crudity to the east.84 The Austro-­Bavarian Ludus de antichristo, written around 1160, depicts the Antichrist kissing the French king in order to show that France was close to the powers of darkness.85 At the same time, but in the other direction, John of Salisbury railed both against Frederick Barbarossa, his archetypical tyrant, and against Germans in general.86 “Who made the Germans judges over nations,” he asked. “Who lent ­these dumb, ill-­tempered ­people the authority to arbitrarily place princes over the heads of p ­ eople? All too often has their rage flared up only to be chastened, confused by God, and shamed for their iniquity.”87 This “rage” is the old cliché of the furor teutonicus, which dates as far back as the invasion of Italy by the Cimbri and Teutones. While German incivility became a familiar image in Eu­rope, the association of the French with higher education and dialectical refinement never caught on entirely. Beginning in the 1160s, a theory of translatio studii that had first appeared in the Carolingian period was widely disseminated at the schools and took on a life of its own ­there. Wisdom, it was said, found its first home in Athens and then traveled over the course of earthly history through Rome and fi­nally to France, and more specifically to Paris. Chrétien de Troyes knew and used this topos in ­t hese years.88 No negative version of this ste­reo­ type, of the disproportionate intellectualism of the French, ever developed east of the Rhine. This absence is not surprising b ­ ecause contemporaries saw the scholastic movement as an international one. What happened at the Pa­ ri­sian schools was a ­matter of Eu­ro­pean, not just French history. We have one more witness to question: the Augustinian hermit Gerhoh of Reichersberg from Upper Austria. A con­temporary of Bernard of Clair-



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vaux, Gerhoh was much closer to the intellectual world of Hugh of St. Victor, Rupert of Deutz, and Bernard himself than to that of the scholastics. He was also the only German author who explic­itly referred to scholastic knowledge as French.89 In a letter dedicated to Pope Innocent II, he lambasted the new science with words similar to Bernard’s: “As the locust readies to eat what the larva has left ­behind (Joel 1:4), one evil follows another. The many disciples of Peter Abelard are like the locusts which John foresaw emerging from the hellmouth in the Apocalypse” (Rev. 9:3).” 90 In early 1131, he also addressed to the pope a fictional dialog between a secular cleric and a regular canon in which the former, clearly wrong, praises views of the school leaders “across France.” The other view is represented by the magistri Francigenae whom Gerhoh encountered at the Roman curia. While not born opponents of the Germans, they do oppose Rome, the seat of the church.91 They also show typical weaknesses: they lack discipline in questiones, engage in idle chatter, and obsess over worldly news. Speaking directly to one of them, Gerhoh asks sarcastically: “You ask how could that be? My response: You are a French master, and yet you d ­ on’t know?” 92 As much as the tone ­here resembles the criticism of Bernard and William of Saint-­Thierry, it would never have occurred to ­either of them to play the “French” card like this. It is also impor­tant to recognize that Gerhoh’s harsh judgment of the schools, contrary to what some have argued in the past, did not suppose any opposition between characteristic French and German forms of intellectualism. He seems to have sensed something “French” about the schools, but he treated them more as newcomers in the culture of the Roman Church than as opponents to the Germans. Dangerous adversaries of this kind could be found anywhere. The immediate cause of Gerhoh’s polemic was prob­ably the fact that a certain Peter, a student of Gilbert of Poitiers, had turned up recently in nearby Vienna. Peter began to work ­t here and possibly opened a school too. Whenever Gerhoh attacked the learned bishop of Poitiers in word and writing, he prob­ably meant his pupil as well. With his home region ­under attack from the scholastics, Gerhoh had to go to war.93 The experience of his trips to Rome, when he first noticed that scholastic thought had gained influence in the papal circles, had caused him alarm. And like Bernard and William, his unease was on the rise around 1140. The g­ reat figures of monastic learning w ­ ere getting older while the scholastic teachers had ensured the propagation—­and possibly also the radicalization—of their thinking style through the new schools.

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Eu­rope ­After 1150: Knowledge Becomes Usable and Interconnective Generational Change: Power Begins to Reckon with Science Moralists like Gerhoh found it difficult to accept that the ­f uture belonged to new kinds of knowledge. Many of the g­ reat older scholars w ­ ere on their way out. Suger of St.-­Denis died in 1151, and Wibald of Corvey and Anselm of Havelberg in 1158. So too ­were mighty figures such as Conrad III (d. 1152) in Germany, the Cistercian pope Eugenius III (d. 1153), Stephen of ­England (d. 1154), and Roger II of Sicily (d. 1154). Bernard exited the stage in 1153. ­These worldly and religious rulers had grown up during the Investiture Controversy, which had s­ haped their po­liti­cal orientations. They w ­ ere doubtless aware of the new knowledge at the schools and may have recognized that academic effort had allowed a bloodless end to the ecclesiological conflict. But they never r­ eally tried to make use of it themselves. Even if they had wanted to, they prob­ably would not have known how. And it was far easier to just delegate their correspondence to ­actual scholars. Just as the most brilliant mind of the twentieth c­ entury once had to earn his bread as a “technical expert, third class,” at the Bern patent office, so too did John of Salisbury, ­after twelve long years of study, spend many years ­after 1147 preparing paperwork for Archbishop Theobald of Canterbury (d. 1161).94 Admittedly, t­ here ­were some advantages to this arrangement: unfulfilled by his tasks, John wrote some of his best academic work at this time. Could he have done it while weighed down with teaching? Welcome side effects aside, it is hard to imagine that this job was ­really the ultimate goal of his twelve-­year pèlerinage from master to master, from trivium to quadrivium. Did writing appeals to the papal curia on behalf of an archbishop ­really befit a philosophical mind of John’s caliber?95 In the mid-­twelfth c­ entury, the older, less academic generation was replaced by new rulers who tried to establish a symbiotic relationship with the new science. ­These included Henry II of ­England, William II of Sicily, the En­glish pope Adrian IV, and especially his successor Alexander III. Impor­ tant too ­were Theobald’s successor Thomas Becket and the archbishops and bishops of Cologne, Prague, Magdeburg, Trier, Mainz, and Salzburg. They belonged to a new generation who dealt with the new knowledge from the outset and who paved the way for its incorporation into practices of rulership and administration. One sign that scholarly know-­how was becoming



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more impor­tant was that it quickly became indispensable in conflicts. The case of Thomas Becket, who was himself an alumnus of the schools, is a ­great example. In 1170, he was murdered by men seeking to do a f­avor for the En­glish king Henry II.96 The kinds of texts issued in the aftermath by the En­ glish king and his opponents reveal that scholars guided both sides. Th ­ ere was also a rise in pragmatic writing: episcopal charters acquired revolutionary new designs, as studied by Christopher Cheney, and papal decretals rapidly grew in importance.97 The case of the German empire shows very well how generational change could affect the perception of the new knowledge at court. In a letter from 1149, Abbot Wibald of Stablo and Corvey provides an illuminating anecdote involving the Staufer king, Conrad III. At a cheerful gathering held in his presence, ­there was talk about—­among other ­things—­scholarly intellect and logical reasoning. When Conrad had trou­ble following the discussion, Wibald resorted to a silly example in the form of a fallacy. “Have you an eye?” he asked. Conrad said yes. “Have you two eyes?” The king affirmed that he did. “One and two are three. Therefore, you have three eyes,” Wibald asserted. Conrad was quite sure, however, that he had only two eyes. From this conversation, the king concluded that the scholars of his day must have been merry men.98 The situation was very dif­fer­ent u ­ nder his nephew and successor Frederick Barbarossa, whose widely praised sapientia can be seen in both his patronage of and his personal interest in the sciences. Not only did he court Roman law scholars during his Italian expeditions; he also made connections with men like Burgundio of Pisa, an expert in Greek who dedicated his translation of Nemesius of Emesa’s De natura hominis to the emperor.99 The dedicatory letter begins: “­Because I noticed in my conversations with you, most serene emperor, that your majesty seeks to understand better the nature of ­things and their c­ auses, I have de­cided to translate this book in your name.”100 Knut Görich has also shown that ­t here was much discussion and reading—­ both ­silent and aloud—in Barbarossa’s court, and that the emperor cultivated scholarly activity. On his trips over the Alps, Frederick carried along the world chronicle his erudite u ­ ncle, Bishop Otto of Freising, had written and gifted to him.101 At his court, he was known to ­favor advisers and helpers who drew on the new philosophical and theological knowledge.102 Gerhoh of Reichersberg, that conservative spirit, lived u ­ ntil 1169. At times, he must have felt like the last of a ­dying breed. He had to watch as a younger generation, one that treated the new knowledge as an unavoidable fact and a

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g­ reat opportunity, r­ ose to power.103 The last de­cades of the twelfth c­ entury also saw new scholars, who already followed their own rules and initiative, secure positions of influence within the kingdoms, institutions, and socie­ ties in which they w ­ ere embedded. This development was enabled by the developments at the courts and chanceries but also by the amalgamation of new content into the existing scientific structure. Much Jewish and Arabic knowledge (and ancient knowledge by extension) was incorporated at this time, as w ­ ere ele­ments of monastic thinking and the new humanistic doctrine that had been on the rise since midcentury. We ­will cover the first topic ­here and the other two in Chapter 8. Jewish and Muslim Knowledge at the Schools: Toledo The reception of non-­Christian knowledge into western Eu­rope would not have been pos­si­ble had not the scholae already been in place when scholars began to recognize the high level of intellectualism practiced by their Jewish and Islamic neighbors. Knowledge does not spread on its own or diffuse automatically; it depends on interest, reception, and media requirements. The first sporadic attempts to grasp it occurred in the first half of the twelfth ­century as scholars like William of Conches and Adelard of Bath worked on the Arabic “calculating” sciences such as astrology and medicine, even studying Arabic and preparing translations.104 But l­ittle of this knowledge made its way into their substantive works. Much changed in the second half of the c­ entury as scholars learned of the intense intellectual exchange between Christians, Muslims, and Jews occurring in places like Toledo and went t­here to take part in it themselves. ­After King Alfonso VI (“the Brave”) conquered the city in 1085, the cathedral clergy who established themselves ­t here included an intellectual French contingent who added to the literate circles of the Mozarabic, Jewish, and Muslim communities. The members of t­ hese communities seem to have kept to themselves at first, but the scholarly trea­sures possessed by each eventually began to arouse the interest of the ­others. The Arabic astronomical ­tables, treatises on the astrolabe, and other astrological and medical knowledge ­were too attractive to ignore when it was only language barriers that stood between them. Christian scholars came to Toledo specifically for ­t hese texts and, once ­there, took lessons in Arabic. A ­ fter all, where e­ lse could they learn such t­ hings? Gerard of Cremona, who may originally have been a physician, started out by



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translating Arabic medical treatises and then advanced to more difficult topics, prob­ably with the help of Arabic and Mozarabic contacts.105 But ­these individual efforts do not r­ eally add up to a “school of Toledo”—it is unclear that they knew much about what o ­ thers in the city w ­ ere up to. Gerard of Cremona, for example, seems to have been unaware that a parallel proj­ect was ­going on nearby as he worked to translate the phar­ma­ceu­ti­cal Kitab al-­ adwiya al-­mufrada by the Toledan scholar Ibn Wafid into Latin. Gerard’s connection to the cathedral clergy in Toledo can explain why his work is better known ­today than the work of other translators. He seems to have been the first of the curious newcomers to have gained a foothold in the bishop’s circle and who was able to access the contents of the local cathedral library. Although he was not formally a magister, ­people called him “Master Gerard” and added his translation of Euclid’s Ele­ments to their collections. A small community slowly gathered around him, including the En­ glishman Daniel of Morley, who saw more opportunity in multicultural Toledo than in the French schools, and a Mozarab named Ghalib. Gerard called this group his socii just as Abelard had done with his students some time ­earlier.106 Domingo Gundisalvo’s residence in Toledo between 1162 and 1181 brought to the cathedral someone who both tapped into the stores of Jewish and Islamic knowledge and also utilized existing translations. His cooperation with the Jewish phi­los­o­pher and historian Abraham ibn Daūd, whom the Christians called Avendauth, was especially productive. In the case of the Arabic text of Avicenna’s De anima, it was said that Abraham translated it aloud in one of their shared languages (­either a Romance language or a Mozarabic dialect) while Domingo listened and rendered it one step further into Latin.107 Gundisalvo also incorporated and developed the ideas he encountered in Toledo into his own body of work. Using all tools available to him, he managed to give Aristotelian philosophy a form so convincing that his work was said to have heralded the “second beginning” of Eu­ro­pean Aristotelianism.108 When scholars such as Gundisalvo engaged with their Jewish and Muslim counter­parts, they took part in a self-­referential academic discourse that enabled even the most difficult conversations. It became pos­si­ble ­there to discuss God across religious bound­aries, beyond the revealed certainties of their scriptures, and devoid of the usual obligation of unconditional obedience to the faith. Holding such conversations was a mighty achievement, and they accomplished it by emphasizing a distinction between rationally founded knowledge and divine revelation. Ibn Daūd and Gundisalvo, a Jew and a

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Christian, made the most of this academic communication.109 So power­f ul and formative was it that when scholars such as Domingo spoke of the utility of their acquired knowledge, they tended to assume uses that w ­ ere internal to science itself. For them, the “utility” (utilitas) of theoretical philosophy rested not in making the world a better place but in revealing “the constitution of every­t hing that exists.”110 No school landscape comparable to the one in Paris emerged in Toledo, prob­ably ­because ­t here was at once too much and too ­little institutional stability ­t here. Scholarly activities ­were tied too closely to the cathedral, a space that William of Champeaux and Abelard had felt obliged to leave b ­ ehind in order to achieve their goals. At the same time, the organ­ization of the scholae in Toledo was much too weak to produce the competitive group structure that the schools of western Eu­rope relied on. For ­these reasons, the kind of communication that in Paris provided the new science both its generative power and a medium of transmission never materialized in Toledo. This finding can be generalized to the imposing achievements of the translators and “cultural brokers” of the eleventh and twelfth centuries. They rendered foreign texts into Latin not just in Toledo but elsewhere on the Iberian Peninsula, in Venice, Constantinople, Palermo, and Salerno, and even on Mont-­Saint-­Michel. The main reason their works managed to achieve wide reception was that they became textbooks at the schools.111 It is no coincidence that Gundisalvo’s De divisione philosophiae had the most impact not in Spain but at the French scholae, where the translator-­philosopher soon became known. Once this text arrived and was integrated into scholastic practice, as Claude Lafleur has shown, it became one of the most impor­tant catalysts for the restructuring of “education” into “science,” of the artes liberales into philosophy.112 Other works acquired fame primarily as textbooks too. The treatise of Ibn Sīnā (Avicenna) On the Soul, which was translated into Latin between 1152 and 1166, was taken up at the young Oxford University by the phi­los­o­pher John Blund a few de­cades ­later. It was only at the university of Paris that Avicenna’s Prima philosophia was read and discussed.113 Ideas like Gundisalvo’s found fertile soil at the schools. His own doctrine treated science through the lens of Arabic falsafa (Arabized philosophia), an epistemic order that a priori caused tension and conflict with other fields of knowledge, fostering division, demarcation, differentiation, and reflection. In the Islamic world, with its highly developed understanding of language, law, and God based in the study of the Koran, ancient Greek wisdom was seen as something external, something that their own language did not even have



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a word for.114 The knowledge of the phi­los­o­phers was a specialized body “foreign” to the “Arabic” sciences, one that had to first be classified and legitimized by al-­Kindī (c. 805–73), Al-­Fārābī, and o ­ thers. Through the Toledan translators, t­ hese Islamic achievements helped to spur much new thinking about science in Eu­rope. The schools now possessed a scientific theory capable of integrating diverse new texts of natu­ral philosophy, metaphysics, and practical philosophy into the Aristotelian corpus. In the introduction to the De divisione philosophiae, Domingo rejoiced: “Happy is that e­ arlier age which produced so many wise p ­ eople who, like stars, brought light to the darkness of the world. They produced many sciences which are left b ­ ehind like torches to illuminate the uncertainty of our minds.” The multitude of subjects and approaches that had formerly been seen as evidence of folly and distance from God now suddenly appeared in a new light.115

CHAPTER 8

Knowledge Creates and ­Orders the Th ­ ings of the World Learned and Unlearned: Scholarship and the Layman’s Understanding The masters and scholars never formed an entirely closed estate. We have encountered many of them in other roles, as seen in Abelard’s case and in the changes to his linguistic register.1 Some established masters like Peter Lombard and Stephen of Tournai took up episcopal seats while ­others such as the younger Peter of Blois became tutors to princes, chancellors in the ser­v ice of bishops, and archdeacons. Still o ­ thers, like Peter the Chanter or Odo of Soissons, de­cided to adopt the white robe of the Cistercians at the end of their long teaching ­careers. Looking back on them, we can infer how ­great the culture shock must have been for newcomers who got their first taste of ­free academic discourse in a protected space at the schools. Where ­else in the world could a teacher train students in systematic methods by asking “­whether the devil is good?”2 In what other context could an ambitious young Welsh student in the 1160s have heard a theological luminary say that the devil had never harmed the church as much as when clerical marriage was forbidden?3 Maintaining the ability to engage in academic discourse was indispensable for ­those who taught and wrote, but one could adopt another set of values and logic without ill effect. Nearly all who engaged in nonacademic secular or religious functions continued to call on the skills of philosophy and scholastic theology. The younger Peter of Blois, for example, who during his study years had been interested more in allegorical interpretation than distinctiones and quaestiones, showed in his ­later letters that he was still very much engaged with con­temporary theology.4 He also demonstrated how much the knowledge of his younger days had ­shaped him by drawing on old questions he had gathered years before as a student in Paris in order



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to answer new questions posed to him. His expertise was soon in such high demand that he complained about all the inquiries he was receiving.5 Bound­aries ­were necessary, but scholars could not cut themselves off from the outside world since they often borrowed perspectives and ideas from other social categories. Still, some masters ­were pronounced in their gestures of otherness and how they performatively distanced themselves from normal activity. “Logic,” as Abelard complained to Heloise, had “made him hated by the world.” But at the same time, his opponents mocked his theology for being a topic of vulgar gossip even among boys and fools around town.6 This “world,” which supposedly knew nothing of science, was clearly capable of maintaining conflicting interpretations. Scholars had plenty of reasons to stay in contact with f­amily, friends, and benefactors in the outside world, including ­matters of basic necessity. When Abelard was overwhelmed by work, for example, he de­cided to go home and stay with his f­amily for a while. “The first song of the scholar,” claimed an Italian letter writer, “is the request for financial support. Th ­ ere ­will never be a letter from him which does not ask for money.” ­Fathers admonished sons to behave properly just as masters warned ­fathers when their offspring w ­ ere not on the right track.7 ­There ­were also reasons from a scholarly viewpoint to engage with the opinions, beliefs, and perceptions of the unlearned. A core tenet of the Christian faith, a­ fter all, was that e­ very man and ­woman, educated or not, was eligible for salvation if only they believed.8 Church doctrine and the faith concurred: no one had to complete a degree in theology to be saved. Knowledge was obviously essential for understanding the deeper layers of meaning in scripture, for the liturgy, and for preaching. It was well known that even the lowliest, oldest, and poorest w ­ oman (the proverbial vetula found in Mark 12:41) could be spiritually respectable, and that her convictions ­were sometimes preferable to the cold, positivist expertise of the scholar.9 When a Jewish man in the Rhineland became interested in Chris­ tian­ity, he went to France to study. But it was the kindness and tears of two anchoresses in Cologne rather than the doctores that enlightened him. “The pious prayer of ­simple ­women,” he wrote sometime ­after 1144, had accomplished what rational arguments and discussion with the high clergy had failed to do.10 If Balaam’s ass saw ­t hings that remained hidden to the prophet (Num. 22.21), then it was also pos­si­ble for the uneducated to glimpse certain truths that eluded the subtle scientific mind.

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Phi­los­o­phers tended to approach lay knowledge differently than the theologians. More interested in the relationship between truth and opinion than in academic doctrine and faith, their statements about uneducated opinions w ­ ere more likely to come off as contemptuous. When William of Conches wanted to indicate that further proof was unnecessary, he would say something like “it is obvious even to the bleary-­eyed and the hairdressers.”11 A common view was that sensual perception, especially eyesight, was too naively trusted by the unlearned. Seeing led to opinions, impressions, and assumptions rather than knowledge, truth, and necessity.12 But as we have already seen, certain knowledge of the truth is a state one should diligently aspire to but is likely never to achieve. Even phi­los­o­phers had reason to be ­humble. Common sense also played a special role in philosophical epistemology since the practice of questioning required identifying a starting point at which to begin discussion. For Aristotle, this role was fulfilled by the endoxon, the opinion that “seems true to all, to most, or to the wise.”13 Although he was not thinking of totally uneducated ­people ­here, consulting ordinary ­people was actually considered a proven means of determining the general opinion on a m ­ atter. Olga Weijers has shown in her history of disputation techniques that this procedure was standard in ancient forms of discursive truth seeking. Hugh of St. Victor used the adage “what you do not know, Ofellus may know” in the same sense. Ofellus, a character from Horace’s Satires, epitomized the uneducated peasant who nevertheless possessed sound judgment.14 The difference between general consensus and scientifically determined knowledge would ­later enter academic discussion in the form of the communis opinio, a positive statement about what a discipline—­and not the general public—­held to be true at a given time (much like the modern idea of a “current state of research”).15 From t­ here, scholarly discourse developed additional terms to indicate what opinions seemed knowable and could be investigated: the sensus vulgaris, sana ratio, notitia communis, consensus omnium, and consensus gentium.

School and Abbey: Reciprocal Accreditation Habitual Proximity: Monks and Scholars The real obstacle to demarcating academic thinking from other lifestyles and forms of analy­sis was not the uneducated laity but rather the monks



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and their highly respectable intellectualism. Although modern studies no longer firmly distinguish between “scholastic” and “monastic” thought, ­t hese categories helped contemporaries to orient themselves. When Rupert of Deutz spoke of a scholastico licet monacho, of a “scholastic” who was “indeed [also] a monk,” it was meant to be an oxymoron. A scholastic monk was like a “wise fool.” Monks relied on concepts of truth too, but ones dif­fer­ent from t­ hose recognized in the schools, as demonstrated by Rupert of Deutz’s allegorical interpretations of highly symbolic Bible passages.16 The criticism that monks leveled at the Pa­ri­sian schools during the twelfth c­ entury has been well studied by Jean Leclercq, Stephen Ferruolo, Peter Godman, and ­others. Ferruolo in par­tic­u­lar, although lacking current terminology for the dif­fer­ent types of criticism, illuminated the practical differences between “internal” and “external” va­ri­e­ties. The former, which came from con­temporary satirists, did not deny the existence of the new science but pointed out its shortcomings and excesses. Passed off as internal scholarly consensus, this criticism sought to undermine the academic enterprise by exposing its absurdities. The other, external variety began by marking a clear boundary between acceptable and unacceptable forms of intellectualism. Bernard’s pathetic “flee from the center of Babylon” is prob­ably the best-­k nown example.17 The intensity of such statements indicates that some saw the life path of the new scholars as dangerous.18 For monks especially, the group form of the scholae seemed to be a serious rival for attention and legitimacy, and so their influence on thinking and moral conduct needed to be kept in check. Given the similarities between the monastic and scholastic worldviews, it is not surprising that gestures of distancing w ­ ere necessary. Monastic life served as an impor­tant reference point for the scholares just as it did for other con­ temporary modes of living. Consider, for example, how they viewed their own environments. Both the monastic calling and the philosophical way of life required some degree of performative separation: wanting to be dead to the world or to live sibi et litteris like the ancient sages, they practiced m ­ ental isolation from the lay world. Both monks and scholars distrusted the cognitive apparatus of the laity and discounted sensory experiences as a source of knowledge. Both the monk, to whom the devil appeared in his dormitory in the form of Christ, and the scholar, who was tempted to conclude something based on conjectural evidence, w ­ ere at risk of being deceived.19 For both groups, disciplina was a key norm. It was central to the observance of a monastic rule and

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provided scholars with a space of rules, common princi­ples, and field-­ oriented reference texts.20 Both also emphasized hardship, although for monks “the rod” was more literal than for scholars, who used it symbolically to describe didactic practices. For the phi­los­o­phers and theologians, humility and outward simplicity w ­ ere essential since other areas of study tended to be more lucrative. Unpretentious appearance and shedding worldly trappings could even be seen as a symbol of intellectualism. Of all ­people, it was a monk, William of Malmesbury, who reported that the scholars of his time w ­ ere pale and gloomy b ­ ecause of constantly working through 21 the night. ­These similarities can be summarized with the idea of a “return of learned anchoritism” discussed above.22 The idea of solitude among ­people, combining both intellectual and religious motives, would be in­ter­est­ing to investigate from a modern perspective. So too would the modern cult of study, with its floor-­to-­ceiling bookshelves and its—­primarily male—­separation from f­ amily life. The latter prob­ably owes something to the monastic model of flight from the world.23 We should not forget the differences between the monastic and scholastic spheres and should also recognize that that they influenced each other. Just as the monks influenced the scholars by rejecting lay society, young Cistercians became deeply interested in the schools. Once hooked on philosophy, novices turned to their in-­house magistri with questions about new trends. Isaac, the abbot of the Cistercian abbey of L’Étoile east of Poitiers, got so fed up that he tried to set his students straight with a sermon.24 Suspicious of their excessive curiosity, he reverted back to a more conventional teaching style. “You have only looked for what is new,” he told them. “And why should we constantly come up with something new?” Whenever he tried to teach something that had been said before, he was met with “nausea or bile . . . ​not b ­ ecause it is not true, good, and fitting, but b ­ ecause it is not altogether recent or new.” But Isaac also faulted himself: “I am partly to blame for this novelty among you. For I have trained you in ­t hese methods and accustomed you to them in such a way that you are hardly able to listen to anyone ­else or even to me if I change my tone. But why did I myself become so enamored with this method and decide to carelessly abandon the familiar?”25 Isaac’s question was not rhetorical, and he took g­ reat pains to answer it by looking inward. In the name of intellectual honesty, and without mentioning Abelard



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or any other scholastic master by name, he explained how he himself had once been attracted by the scholastic milieu: In the past certain p ­ eople of outstanding character and amazing discipline whose names I w ­ ill not mention r­ ose up. They did not pervert the Holy Scriptures as heretics do, but sticking less closely to their proper sense, they quite elegantly adapted them for their own purposes. Not without the admiration and moral edification of many, they quite smoothly—if we may speak freely—­trifled with authoritative writings. In their astounding novelty, they drew no conclusions that ­were against faith and truth, but every­t hing could be put to use for integrity of life and morals, as you know, for you complain that we have abandoned this method. And what is amazing to say, they became the most intelligent of all by their lack of understanding. We followed them ­because the world followed them. The entire world went off ­a fter them, and according to ­human reckoning, no one had ever spoken in that way. Whoever did not speak like this was mocked, despised, and left ­behind. ­Those who contradicted them ­were thought to be envious. We too ­adopted their methods so as not to seem to contradict them out of envy or speak differently out of a l­imited ability. . . . ​But now we are saying what we have thought from the beginning, but which, biding our time, we have held back from saying ­until now so that we would not be considered envious or ignorant.26 Isaac’s blending of criticism and self-­criticism in referring to his experiences with scholasticism is striking. He admits that students, as interested young intellectuals, can hardly avoid the influence of scholastic practice and ­will naturally become aware of the talk of the day. But while some interest in novelty is okay, total devotion to it can be dangerous. Distancing Gestures: The Arrogant, the Naive, and the Superficial Separating the monastic and scholastic spheres required distancing their respective knowledge systems and gestures of allegiance. One way this was accomplished was by differentiating their criticism of each other: as scholars

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accused monks of shallow and superficial knowledge, monks tossed accusations of arrogance back at them. An episode from one of Peter Abelard’s many monastic conflicts serves as a good starting point h ­ ere. During his short confinement at the abbey of Saint-­Médard following his first condemnation at Soissons in 1121, he encountered Goswin of Anchin, a somewhat younger monk who had been his student in the past. Goswin had once challenged him in disputation and even managed to knock him down a peg. While Goswin’s academic ambition had long since passed a­ fter he became a monk, he had made a name for himself in ­matters of monastic discipline. It was in this capacity that he faced off against an Abelard fresh off the condemnation of his offensive theological work. As claustral prior of the abbey, Goswin had the right to rein in this most prominent of Pa­ri­sian masters and apply the rod if necessary. In Goswin’s vita written fifty years l­ater, Abelard’s be­hav­ior was compared to that of “a wild rhinoceros.”27 Goswin began in a “spirit of leniency,” imploring the master to behave “respectably” (honeste) as an example to all and in keeping with his stature.28 Abelard reacted gruffly: “Why do you keep preaching to me about respectability, advising me to be respectable, praising respectability? Many who debate about the species of respectability d ­ on’t even know what it is!”29 Since Goswin had made some effort in his initial speech to demonstrate his learning, the reply stung. He then threatened with the rod, which startled the rhinoceros and caused him to calm down. According to Goswin’s biographer, Abelard was afraid he would be flogged. Even if Goswin’s vita is not known for its reliability, this anecdote is believable enough. It was characteristic of Abelard to stick very closely to core concepts and definitions. Unlike with Goswin, we know exactly what he meant when he talked about decency and respectability (honestas). Central to his understanding of the term was a passage from Horace’s letters explaining how positive motives are superior to negative ones. Virtuous p ­ eople reject sin b ­ ecause they love virtue while bad p ­ eople do it b ­ ecause they fear punishment.30 From this perspective, Abelard’s response to Goswin begins to make sense. One who advised honestas with whip in hand prob­ably did not know of Horace or of the difference between positive and negative motivations. The prior, whose inadequate education was clear as day to Abelard, was obviously talking about ­t hings he did not understand. Such knowledge could only have been acquired through rigorous study that did not shy away



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from challenging ideas. Abelard’s other periods of residence at Saint-­Médard, Saint-­Denis, and Saint-­Gildas only confirmed his impression that monks did not read critically enough and lacked intellectual discipline. Other scholars also used the superficiality (levitas) of other p ­ eople’s knowledge as a ste­reo­t ypical marker of difference. John of Salisbury used it to ­great effect in ­t hose portions of his Entheticus on the superficiality and credulity (credulitas) of court speech. Young ­people needed to be warned away from ­t hese faults lest their scholarly judgment become corrupted.31 Abelard’s manner of reply was occasionally mirrored in communications between other monks and men of science like Bernard of Clairvaux and Gilbert of Poitiers. The council that ruled on Gilbert’s doctrine of the Trinity in 1148 failed to reach a proper verdict, and so Bernard, as the defendant’s main opponent, made a gesture of reconciliation in an effort to limit the damage and save face. He suggested to Gilbert that they meet up again to discuss the writings of Hilary amicably and without conflict. He also asked Gilbert to choose a place for the meeting. Bernard’s intent was clearly to heal the wounds inflicted in the previous days, but the esteemed professor saw it differently. Gilbert let it be known that they had already expended enough effort and that the abbot should begin elementary lessons in the sciences if he wished to fully understand Hilary.32 The narrator of this episode adds that Gilbert and Bernard w ­ ere simply experienced in dif­fer­ent areas. Rupert of Deutz, who thought that the new French schools did not take him and his opulent work seriously enough, experienced something similar ­after attacking Anselm of Laon. The famous theologian did not deign to address him directly and wrote instead to his monastic superior in Liège, Abbot Heribrand. Anselm treated the point of contention as a quibble over words rather than a real conflict: men discuss the substantive meaning of words, he seemed to say, while boys, unable to comprehend the basics, bicker over semantics.33 Monks fought back against such labels by reporting on the unbearable pride of the scholars, the deficiencies of the younger academic generation, and the fatal damage being done to the church by a knowledge of God based on scholastic distinctions. But right back at them, the scholars talked about the uninspiring quality of monastic thought (despite its high aspirations) and about how monks w ­ ere too concerned with the gossip and affairs of the outside world.

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Scholasticism and Humanism: Two Discourses on Knowledge and Education A “Re­nais­sance of the Twelfth ­Century”? Despite the dif­fer­ent merits of monastic and scholastic life and thought, we are not dealing with entirely closed or opposed communities. Schoolmasters showed interest in monastic practice, and some even took vows themselves, while young Cistercians demanded to hear about the newest trends in the academic world. Indeed, overlap and transfer seem to have been a common occurrence. Isaac could talk openly about his scholastic past without calling into question his allegiance to a monastic order known for its skepticism ­toward rationalism. It is helpful to think of monasticism and academia as producing two discourses during ­t hese years. We have already observed how members of both groups shared concepts such as “truth,” “decency,” and “discipline” but assigned dif­fer­ent meanings to them. We could show the same for “doubt,” “contradiction,” and “old age.” ­These dif­fer­ent ways of using language, especially definitions and value judgments, help to define and differentiate the two discourses. Through the ways their members labeled each other (as superficial or arrogant), they marked their outer borders and reinforced their internal homogeneity. We must bring a third quantity into play before the argument can be advanced any further. From the ­middle of the twelfth ­century, three discourses negotiated the relationship between higher knowledge and real­ity: the monastic, scholastic, and the humanistic. So far, the humanistic discourse has been treated most fully in the context of the twelfth-­century “re­nais­sance,” and especially in regard to the renewed Latinity and elevation of literary standards so emphasized by Charles Homer Haskins. As we w ­ ill see, interpreting t­ hese phenomena as aspects of a discourse can provide us new and even corrective insight. The very idea of a “twelfth-­century re­nais­sance” (ridiculed by Peter Godman as a “crude but tenacious ideology”), of “humanism” some two hundred years before Petrarch (even worse nonsense in Godman’s opinion), of “scholastic humanism” (supremely confusing), has never ­really stood on solid ground. For ­every indication of rebirth and newly awakened optimism, historians have had to acknowledge equally weighty evidence of widespread and growing pessimism. Refusing to do so has resulted in charges of selective bias against dia-



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lectic, canon law, and vernacular lit­er­a­ture.34 For ­every euphoric assessment of the moderni, we find glaring warnings not to neglect the antiqui. Much of the evidence has also been flipped back and forth many times, which has provided the ninety-­year debate over the “twelfth-­century re­nais­sance” with a sense of vigor but ­little real pro­gress. Comparing the statements of individual authors has also done ­little to help: many writers, we now recognize, expressed mutually conflicting opinions at dif­fer­ent times. Stephen Jaeger has provided us helpful new perspectives by considering textual genres and key topics such as history, science, poetry, and love separately. The next logical step to this strategy would be to divide up the discourses and to see how they interfere, compete, and oppose each other ­under dif­fer­ent circumstances. Jan-­Hendryk de Boer has already applied this approach effectively to “scholasticism” and “humanism” around 1500.35 The following section ­will sketch out how it might also be applied to our time period. Separating the discourses allows us to examine them without needing to weigh competing positions, such as the value of the old versus the new, against each other. By allowing that positions might belong to more than one discourse, we can begin to identify the rhetorical logic ­behind individual propositions.36 Humanism, Education, Epistolary Culture During the second half of the twelfth c­ entury, a new circle of litterati focused its attention on the Christian and classical traditions of literary education. This group set aside the scholastic way of thinking, which was strongly influenced by the works of Aristotle, Porphyry, Boethius, Plato, and Macrobius, and which included an expansive understanding of science and philosophical speculation, clear definitions, logical stringency, a distinct notion of temporality, and an operative concept of scientific truth. In John of Salisbury, who turned his back on scholastic science, we have already met an impor­tant member of this circle. Once he acquired high office in the church and the world, he confidently entered into this new discourse. Keeping in mind Godman’s criticism of the use of “re­nais­sance” and “humanism” to describe the twelfth ­century, we ­will not try to assign any specific character to our era. We seek only to show that a discourse flourished in ­these years that can meaningfully be described as humanistic, and that it existed apart from and in dialog with con­temporary scholastic and monastic discourses.

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The term “humanistic” refers to a specific way that ideas about the individual, about correct knowledge, and about proper living became entangled with each other. Individuality had already played an impor­tant role for interlocuters as diverse as Abelard and Bernard of Clairvaux. Now it was given a new framework of expression through the ideal of classical—­and above all Ciceronian—­Latin.37 Also impor­tant h ­ ere was rhe­toric, an art the scholastics had made ­little use of (and often distrusted).38 Linked up with con­ temporary thinking about the communal benefits of education, ­these concepts captured the interest of small groups of men united by common emotions, experiences, and opinions—by their “lived lives.” Through the exchange of letters and ideas, ­these men sought to achieve personal growth much like the scholastics. But as we ­w ill see, their ideas and practices differed in impor­tant ways. Following Wolfgang Kluxen’s model, we ­will use the terms “education” and “science” to describe two separate and antithetical discourses.39 We have already covered the origins of science in the preceding chapters. Rooted in a new belief in rationality, it was carried out through the application of logic. It relied on strict linguistic rules dictated by dialectic, it cultivated criticism and doubt, and it disposed of uncertainties by limiting inquiry to what could be defined through scientific methods. While the irritating diversity of historical socie­ties, for example, defied scientific explanation, nature proved more amenable and would become the central object of the discourse. Essential ­here was what Kluxen called a “pathos of pro­gress,” the need to constantly improve basic knowledge through rational and methodical procedures.40 In contrast, Kluxen’s concept of “education” was rooted in the cultivation of a cherished and revered literary tradition. This discourse, which has received attention both from historians such as Haskins and Richard Southern and from researchers of high medieval friendship culture, exhibited a pronounced aesthetic impulse and projected confidence that studying its material would perfect one’s character and encourage contribution to society. That it took a negative view of scholastic science helps to explain why Haskins generally excluded dialectic from his narrative even though it was also a success story. So much have modern scholars identified with the medieval humanistic enthusiasm for language that they have balked at the staid style of the dialecticians. In other words, the technical diction of the commentaries and quaestiones offended both the twelfth-­century humanists and modern humanists like Haskins for the same reasons.



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The humanistic educational discourse thrived by appropriating ancient ideas and texts such as Cicero’s teaching dialog On Friendship, which survives in around fifty copies from the twelfth c­ entury. Readers received this text enthusiastically, and some w ­ ere even inspired to write their own treatises on friendship.41 The most impor­tant medium of this discourse, however, was neither the educational dialog nor the treatise but the letter. In the words of John van Engen, the letter was the “essential form of literate self-­expression among the learned.” 42 Although not fixed in content, it was formally constrained, linguistically oriented ­toward active oral communication, and rhetorically ambitious. The letter had proven its effectiveness often in the past, and it had already provided a central medium for the Church ­Fathers. Ambrose, Augustine, and Jerome used letters to tackle issues of biblical interpretation, which meant that l­ater generations who wished to correctly understand their views had to look through an epistolary lens. Letters did not simply contain meaning; they ­shaped it. In the Carolingian era, scholars such as Alcuin used letters to help their students understand the Trinity. ­Later, the eleventh-­century Eucharistic controversy involving Berengar of Tours was carried out both in treatises and in letters. As we saw ­earlier, letters ­were essential for maintaining student-­teacher relationships of the older kind.43 When Peter Damian wished to comment on the omnipotence of God or the disgraceful habits of monks and nuns, he wrote letters that read like lively treatises. Anselm of Canterbury, Bernard of Clairvaux, Peter the Venerable, and Hildebert of Lavardin w ­ ere especially revered for their letters. Ambitious students committed their e­ very word to memory.44 The letter writers who sustained the humanistic educational discourse emerged slowly from the monastic milieu of authors, editors, and literary enthusiasts. Among the most impor­tant w ­ ere John of Salisbury and his close friend Abbot Peter of Montier-­la-­Celle near Troyes (1145–62), who l­ater became abbot of Saint-­Remi in Reims (1162–81) and succeeded John as bishop of Chartres (1181–83).45 Just as impor­tant was Gilbert Foliot, who was first abbot of Gloucester Abbey (1139–48) before he became the bishop of Hereford (1148–63) and then of London (1163–87).46 Other leading figures ­were Arnulf, who served as bishop of Lisieux for forty years beginning in 1141, and Peter of Blois, who authored his letter collection in part as a vehicle for ­career advancement. Naturally, he is of ­great interest to us.47 The massive corpora of ­these famous writers reference many additional correspondents whose works do not survive.

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The period that concerns us ­here has been called the first “golden era” of letters (Giles Constable), when emotions ­were verbalized using the explicit terminology of “I” and “you.” 48 According to modern assessments, the letters of preceding centuries ­were overly ­simple (except during the brief blossom of Carolingian intellectualism) and became too rationalistic afterward. The thirteenth ­century saw the production of impressive scholarly works such as the Summa Theologiae, but by the time of Thomas Aquinas and Albertus Magnus, the era of friendship letters was over. Scholars have been tempted to reconstruct social relationships by examining t­ hese texts. Who wrote to whom? What vocabulary did they use? What ­were the rules of decorum?49 Research on ­t hese letters has encouraged the exploration of friendship and kinship, of feelings and sexuality. It has prompted new theorizing about the emergence of individuality and of Foucault’s “practices of the self,” and it has incited curiosity about other literary forms that similarly aestheticized and reflected on the state of knowledge.50 In other words, this era saw the beginning of many ­t hings we hold near and dear ­today. How do the scholastics fit into this story? Men like Gilbert of Poitiers mostly avoided the educational discourse and its most impor­tant medium. Scholastic magistri wrote few letters, and even fewer of them made their way into collections. William of Champeaux may well have responded to the moving letter of encouragement Hildebert of Lavardin used to open his own collection, but no evidence of it has survived. While chance survival may be a ­factor in some cases, it can be ruled out as a general explanation. During this ­century of letter writing, letter collecting, and friendship statements, scholastic masters and writers e­ ither avoided writing them entirely or confined themselves to the kinds of practical written messages that scarcely survive. Anselm of Laon worked intensively with the Pauline epistles, but the only letter of his that we know of is the above-­mentioned message to Heribrand of Liège.51 No letters at all survive from Bernard of Chartres, William of Conches, Thierry of Chartres, Petrus Helias, Adelard of Bath, Domingo Gundisalvo, or Robert of Melun. The same goes for Gratian, Peter Lombard, Peter Comestor, and Peter the Chanter.52 Two letters have been attributed to Gilbert of Poitiers, but they still need to be critically verified.53 Several letters do actually survive from Clarembald of Arras, which makes sense given his role as an expert mediator for scholastic ideas. B ­ ecause he was able to express himself more clearly than ­others, cathedral clergy of his day sought him out for advice. The same was true of Hugh of Amiens and Alberic of Re-



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ims, two students of Anselm of Laon who managed to achieve some influence beyond the schools. The few exceptions, such as the extravagant letters of Abelard and Heloise, ­were indeed exceptional. Both of them ­were learned and also interested in poetry and basically all other forms of lit­er­a­ture. In Heloise, the peripatetic phi­los­o­pher of Le Pallet managed to find someone e­ lse who held in high esteem the very texts that would soon fuel the humanistic discourse.54 Walter of Mortagne, whose inquiry to Abelard we saw ­earlier, also wrote letters. The same goes for the Victorines, above all Hugh and Richard of St. Victor, who taught a uniquely “realistic” (Ludwig Ott) form of spiritual learnedness dif­fer­ent from the scholastics but not entirely monastic e­ ither.55 The Victorines ­were mostly critical of scholastic ideas, preferring other methods of systematizing knowledge that could also be applied to history. L ­ egal scholars ­were especially likely to write letters. From Stephen of Tournai, the author of a summa on the Decretum and a harsh critic of the schools, more than three hundred known pieces survive.56 Two Dif­fer­ent Life Plans ­ ose who authored sentence collections, summae, commentaries, and quaesTh tiones usually kept the furthest away from the humanistic genre. The dif­fer­ ent rules regarding what was appropriate to say in letters compared to scholastic texts prob­ably influenced this decision. As we w ­ ill see, t­ hese two discourses, both of which relied on texts as their media, handled statements about knowledge, experience, and temporality very differently. Considerable distance existed between the two in terms of their ways of life and under­lying values. The scholastics saw the business of knowledge not just as an activity for early age but as one suitable for all ages. In princi­ple, one could spend an entire life working alongside o ­ thers on scientific texts. The autopoietic pro­cess of knowledge generation was endless, and so it was hard for the scholastics to imagine that participation in the “scholastic programme” (Richard Southern) of disputation, quaestio, and authoring academic texts had a time limit. ­Those who did not submit to this life plan disavowed the entire enterprise.57 From t­ hese ideas, school life developed its characteristic combination of learning, teaching, disputing, and writing. Humanistic discourse followed dif­fer­ent rules when it came to the meaningful use of knowledge in a rationally oriented life. Its tripartite biographical model included an initial, formative phase when one attended school, and

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a second phase consisting of office-­holding, responsibilities, and activities but also stress and hardship. Just as the first phase was associated with youth and intellectual exuberance, the second phase corresponded to active life as well as ageing, weakening, and diminishing vigor and eyesight. Participants in the humanistic discourse eagerly pursued t­ hese activities but also lamented their excesses. As their duties forced them to neglect other interests, intellectual curiosity threatened to fade away. A third phase, which had to be forcefully wrestled from the second, consisted of valuable moments of leisure (otium) that occurred when business (negotium) was temporarily set aside or when old age allowed for retirement. Although almost entirely absent from the scholastic discourse, leisure took on special significance in monastic rhe­ toric. ­There it denoted the meditative nearness to God that was the direct opposite of the strenuous lectio of texts. It was impor­tant both to education and to participation in the monastic discourse itself.58 “Leisure without letters is death, a sepulcher for a living man,” wrote John of Salisbury, quoting Seneca.59 When an educated man like Geoffrey, the archdeacon of Norfolk, left ­behind “the glowing oven of courtly affairs” around 1203 to seek “the quiet freedom of the soul,” he could expect to receive letters from his friends congratulating him. He fi­nally had time for reading and study!60 The biographical narrative arc within this three-­part scheme required looking back on one’s youth since it was school lessons that both nurtured the intellect and formed the basis for proper conduct in higher office. Former students could draw on this knowledge for the rest of their lives. It was also fortunate for them when early friendships and acquaintances endured: they could build contacts within the curia or even with the pope himself if they had once been classmates and comrades.61 Even when the old ­mental acuity could no longer be counted on, one could rest assured that time had done well to curb youthful excess and exuberance. At a young age, it was far too easy to be drawn in by glamor and intoxicated by city life.62 According to Arnulf of Lisieux in the introduction to his letter collection, the knowledge that comes with age is less brilliant but is also more resilient. He described his early letters as “remnants of a better time,” which bore the scent of classroom exercises (exercitia scolaria redolebant), and explained how they had been composed by a sharper mind. He saw his l­ater letters, in contrast, as somewhat lacking b ­ ecause of his reduced intellectual vigor and attention to other business. Instead of figures of speech, he was now focused on saving the souls of ­t hose entrusted to him. His apol­o­getic undertone is intentional. He seems to be saying that the real value of what one learns at school and the



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lasting impact of one’s youthful authorial aspirations can be accurately determined only by what one ­later does in office.63 The proof of the pudding lies in the eating. ­There is so much talk about student living conditions in twelfth-­century letters in large part b ­ ecause it symbolized a state of being within the narrative.64 Authors who wanted to chart their growth from a brilliant but morally endangered young man to a responsible man of action would begin with a time of youthful exuberance or their own poetry.65 While this approach might seem to open the door to criticism like that faced by the new science and the dialecticians for their supposed fixation on language and their detachment from real life, the humanists managed to do it without being subjected to the anti-­dialectical tropes of the preceding c­ entury. First, we must get a sense of the epistemology employed in ­t hese letters. Whereas dialectic guided the new science in its search for rational truths, letter writers prioritized experiential facts. Experientia could mean knowledge based on empirical observation, religious and spiritual conviction, or what one encountered in texts. “I have no doubt of your wisdom, which you have won by the depth of your reading and your experience of affairs and (what comes first) have received by grace,” John of Salisbury wrote to the ecclesiastical chancellor of Bayeux.66 And again: “I have found by experience of many cases. . . .” What the scholastics saw as a dangerous gateway to bias and error the humanists viewed as a privileged path.67 The latter also recognized that tension existed between empirical experience and pure philosophical knowledge.68 When one looks for references to both in the letters of Arnulf of Lisieux or Peter of Blois, the combinations of words are quite revealing: “experienced and proven”; “strengthened by the argument of experience”; “guided by habit and experience”; “experience teaches daily”; “­because you know from experience”; “a man with much experience”; and so on. Peter sums up his view several times through the meta­phor of a “book of experience” that has the power to determine the m ­ atter at hand.69 He also became quite ­adept at providing expert consultation. Lower ecclesiastical dignitaries and ­others in need of advice would direct their questions to him, and he would use his knowledge and experience to compose concise letters that attempted to provide a clear answer without oversimplifying the m ­ atter.70 In addition to experience, other guiding princi­ples included utility (utilitas, commodum), evidence (­t hings that can be shown publice or aperte), and prudence (prudentia). Utility is a criterion of correctness and is constantly emphasized in the letter collections. Peter of Blois also refers to the more specific

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idea of common utility (utilitas publica) when indicating ­t hings that benefit ­people generally and whose value can be seen in ­people’s appreciation of them.71 This last idea can also be generalized: in Peter’s imaginary library, a “book of public opinion” stood alongside the “book of experience.” That which for the scholastics provided a starting point for distinction, refutation, and clarification did precisely the opposite for the humanists.72 Prudence directly interacted with the other qualities ­because it too draws on experience rather than pure reason, aims at utility, and considers the social implications of facts and actions. According to Aristotelian thought, it was subordinate to scientia ­because of its reliance on inconsistent individual perception. Nevertheless, it dominated humanistic thinking.73 In this way, humanistic knowledge distanced itself even further from scholastic knowledge. While scholastic knowledge was more or less indifferent to social real­ity, prudentia was a virtue associated with men who occupied high positions and who bore major responsibility. It was a virtue of lords (domini). The ste­reo­t ypical “prudent person” was a worthy official, ideally in advanced age, whose wisdom went hand in hand with auctoritas. It was “bishops and other prudent p ­ eople,” the “wise men of the region,” who handled the impor­tant ­matters.74 The ­great events of ­these days included the crusades, the rise of Angevin rule, papal schisms, and Frederick Barbarossa’s interventions in Italy. It was said of Arnulf of Lisieux that he had played an active role in “­every g­ reat event of his age.” Indeed, much con­temporary history is reflected in his letter collection.75 John of Salisbury reported in 1159 that he had crossed the Alps ten times already, mostly to carry out business at the papal curia on behalf of his “lords and friends.”76 Peter of Blois utilized ­every register to map out this semantic field: one is prudent and honorable; prudence is a quality of the just; the “more prudent men” are the decision makers; archbishops call on the “more prudent and honorable men of the realm”; one obtains information “from a ­great and most prudent man.”77 Once Peter turns from the rhe­toric of the humanists to that of the monks, however, the same ­t hing appears differently. The “wisdom of the world” seems transient and superficial, meaningless and empty. “To God, this prudence is folly.”78 Still, within the bounds of humanistic discourse, a positive attitude ­toward worldly sophistication reigned supreme. By choosing and ordering their letters with an eye ­toward thematic diversity, compilers ­were able to portray their prudence and finesse in worldly affairs and to signal that they could competently express themselves in diverse areas. Arnulf of Lisieux did this through poetry too, teaching his listeners, for exam-



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ple, how to properly give a gift. Prudence, he showed, could be practical too.79 ­These letter collections tried to show that their authors, in keeping with the times, ­were urbane: they ­were able to move about their roles fashionably and could switch them up if necessary. One scribe summed it up well in the heading he gave to Peter’s section on how to ask for a position: urbana imploratio beneficii.80 The constellation of concepts that served as truth criteria in the humanistic discourse was also ­shaped by its medium. The linguistic emphasis of the letters and their emotional and amicable tone lent force to “experience,” “utility,” and “prudence,” turning them from mere norms into values.81 Unlike with the scholastic discourse, it is hard to imagine how the humanistic episteme could have developed apart from the intimate connection between writers. Readers noticed immediately when a letter began to drift away from the tone familiar to the discourse and wondered why. A letter addressing theological prob­lems, for example, could suddenly become scholastic by lapsing into impersonal jargon: “it is asked w ­ hether . . .”; “some say that . . .”; “but ­t here are t­ hose who ask ­whether . . .”; “a famous author says . . .”82 Letter writers underscored their intensive tone by emphasizing the friendship that bound them to the recipient and their common values, attributes, and social standing. Since a major purpose of humanistic epistolary practice was to strengthen t­ hese commonalities, their statements should not be read as true, intimate confessions. Their purpose was more to affirm impor­tant ideas of friendship found in Cicero’s De amicitia that served as symbols of membership in the humanistic discourse. This idea explains why humanistic letters are so self-­referential and why Peter of Celle keeps coming back to the finer details of what friendship actually is.83 Friendship letters struck a special chord with a level of intensity that academic works neither achieved nor aspired to. When Peter of Celle thanked John of Salisbury for writing to him, he touched on how one should approach a letter from a beloved friend. One should read it several times, carefully observing the subtle changes in flavor that come with each rélecture. One should imbibe from it eagerly as if from a drinking vessel but fully aware that ­there is no bottom. Such expressions are typical: one “tastes” letters, and even admonitions are pleasing to the palate. One can imagine the plea­sure in reading t­hese letters out loud, in wondering at the harmony of their content, form, and order (narrationis seriem), and in marveling at how their philosophical, rhetorical, and ­legal references accord with the authority of the Gospels.84 How humanists read letters, especially friendship letters, was closer

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to the techniques employed by monks than by scholars. All three also made efforts in t­ hese years to improve the utility—if not legibility—of their texts through standardization, finding aids, and numbering folios and pages.85 Humanists and Scholastic Techniques Twelfth-­century humanists criticized the scholastics in their letters. To Thomas Becket, John of Salisbury wrote that schools sometimes caused knowledge to swell like a tumor. He described the urban schools as breezy with gossip.86 ­There was also a cliché of scholastic fixation on abstract, impractical language: they feuded over words, disputed with illusions, and croaked like frogs.87 When working on religious ­matters, they tended to make ­simple t­ hings complicated. Why, some asked, was the liturgical formula in the Canon Romanus that beseeched God to accept the offering worded so atrociously? B ­ ecause a schoolman had crafted it, of course!88 Their bad habits affected even religious practice. The issue was not so much scholastic knowledge itself but how scholastics applied it. They ­were right to address the pressing, unavoidable theological questions of the day. In his ­later years, Peter of Blois spent much time working on them too as he dusted off his school notes to answer requests for instruction.89 The modern editor of Peter’s letters has identified many parallels in other works that show how he dealt with the same prob­lems as Peter Lombard, Odo of Soissons, Robert of Melun, Simon of Tournai, Peter of Poitiers, and Stephen Langton.90 Peter could not have done this work without philosophical literacy. Can opposing concepts belong to one and the same Aristotelian category: can the opposite of a sin also be a sin? Are action and restraint both forms of action? At the schools, one learned that it was essential to first distinguish a t­ hing’s components and qualities. In the case of a man who loves a ­woman too much, one has to first consider three kinds of love: the Christian, the carnal, and the natu­ral.91 Grammatical knowledge was also sometimes required: does the adverb refer to the main verb or the modal verb? Does it affect the meaning? What about genus, species, and difference? Peter continued to rely on school texts, citing often from Aristotle’s Topics.92 It is clear that the humanistic discourse did not simply copy the old anti-­ dialectical rhe­toric of the eleventh ­century. The anti-dialecticians had at most tried to signal that they ­were not entirely unversed in logic. The humanists,



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on the other hand, made constructive use of what they had learned at the schools and incorporated it directly into their worldly activities. As letter writers applied their theoretical knowledge to practice, they realized that they w ­ ere becoming a force in the world. Peter of Blois must have noticed it in his late years as pressure mounted on him to relinquish a benefice to his nephew, Peter of Saint-­Martin. Not only did the bishops of France engage him, but also “all the masters reading in Paris.” This statement provides early—­and u ­ ntil now overlooked—­evidence of the constitution of the university in Paris. It also witnesses the confidence with which the teaching cartel t­ here voiced its opinions.93 Experts: Letters and Culture ­ ecause of the scholastic ele­ments found in certain humanistic letters, we w B ­ ill treat them as a separate subcategory: expert letters.94 Such letters differ from the friendship letters and from the business letters typical of Gilbert Foliot and John of Salisbury (in his first collection). Their tone is also dif­fer­ent from the self-­confident letters about current affairs directed at popes and other high lords. Full of polished language, the latter had ­little or nothing to do with the official duties of the authors. Such letters are better understood as intellectual efforts to intrude virtuoso formulations into cases where intervention might seem to benefit the general public. John Cotts has attributed the attitude found in ­t hese letters to a “clerical dilemma” common at the time: how could one be a pastor, an administrator, a teacher, and a witness to current events without sacrificing one’s princi­ples? Did worldly writing of this kind provide clerics a way out of the dilemma?95 Expert letters followed a dif­fer­ent logic. Some early ones survive from Hugo Metellus, but it was Peter of Blois who perfected the art.96 Written in a concise style, they begin by mentioning a specific request that is introduced, then considered, and fi­nally answered. “To me, who is neither physically unburdened nor mentally recovered, you have posed difficult and delicate questions, asking me to explain them carefully,” Peter of Blois responded to an inquiry from the abbot of the Cistercian abbey of Coggeshall in Essex.97 Questions arrived e­ ither individually or in bundles, and in his ­later letters Peter dealt almost entirely with theology and liturgy. He had also worked on questions of marriage and jurisprudence in his e­ arlier letters, even corresponding at one point with a law student, but once he became archdeacon of London, he was known from then on as a specialist in religious ­matters.98

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How should one understand the resurrection of Lazarus? Can one earn merit while asleep or insane? Does virtue require intentional action?99 Some questions seem to have arisen during oral conversation and w ­ ere then posed in writing. Peter’s answers ­were apparently so well received that the growing number of inquiries caused him some strain. Even the lower dignitaries of the En­glish church sought out his expertise. Peter’s letters do not reject juristic approaches, as Richard Southern claimed. On the contrary, Peter carefully crafted his answers so as to not be restricted by subject bound­aries.100 The expert letters begin in medias res and carefully guide the reader through the authoritative texts, the reasoning, the final assessment, and then the answer. They communicate not just the answer but also the expert’s discursive approach to the ­matter. Located between the questioner and the respondent, they occupied a space that would soon be covered by a new but similarly structured text: the expert evaluation (consilium, Gutachten).101 It was impor­tant for Peter, as an author of expert letters, to be up front about where and how he had acquired his knowledge and the influences that had ­shaped his views. At the same time, he tried to express himself in an objective style without digressions or focusing too much on himself. Expert letters like t­ hose of Hugo Metellus and Peter of Blois show how institutions and practices ­were settling at the interface between con­temporary discourses and at the juncture between the academic sphere and its environment. Their authors took it on themselves to translate knowledge that was inaccessible to a lay audience into a form that they could comprehend. Still though, the product aspired to lofty ideals more than to common sense and everyday lay utility. Closer to academic knowledge, the expert answers emphasized the methodical, the systematic, and the discursive, sparing the lay audience only the finer details. Academic knowledge was difficult, but it could be presented in a form that was comprehensible and applicable to the outside world. Skilled ­people fit easily into the role of experts, offering answers precisely tailored to their clients’ needs.102 The experts themselves ­were products of this pro­cess and should not be confused with the ste­reo­t ype of the wise man who focuses on the big picture or that of the officious intellectual, the “unwanted expert” (Peter Berger and Thomas Luckmann). This last group included t­hose who intruded into ­matters that ­were none of their business and constantly talked about under­ lying princi­ples.103 From the existence of experts, medieval ­people learned that the universe of knowledge was growing more complex and that impor­ tant issues required finding the right specialist for the right job. Entry-­level



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knowledge was quickly becoming a basic necessity in many areas of life. By the end of the twelfth c­ entury, some training was necessary for t­ hose who wished to chart a path at court, in the church, in the cities, and in academic environs. Each of ­t hese cultures, in which expertise had become an indispensable resource, can be described as an “expert culture.” From the twelfth c­ entury on, the figure of the “expert” became a symbol for the epistemological differentiation and division of l­ abor commonly found in complex socie­ties. Naturally, some criticized this complexity as restrictive of individual autonomy. The more p ­ eople felt obliged to trust specialized knowledge, the more they doubted that experts ­were ­really sources of objective truth. The intermingling of t­ hese two contradictory trends—of mandatory trust in specialization and of the criticism of experts—­during the twelfth and thirteenth centuries required the denial of real­ity but also led to new creativity. Premodern utopian thinkers often envisioned a simpler, holistic society ­f ree of experts. Many idealistic minds dreamt specifically of a world without ­legal obstacles or jurists. From the twelfth c­ entury on, l­egal experts became a favorite punching bag for medieval cultural criticism. The ­legal advocate, as James Brundage has poignantly put it, became a “moral leper.” One can find abundance adages like “good ­lawyer, bad neighbor” or “no bad ­people, no good ­lawyers.” This sentiment can even be found in the plans of Shakespeare’s peasant rebel: “The first ­thing we do, let’s kill all the ­lawyers!”104

CHAPTER 9

Truth and Utility Experts of Utility: Law and Jurists Travel Unsettles the Mind: Scholastics and New ­Legal Science For the new scholastic science to emerge, a key prerequisite was for the knowledge it pro­cessed to reflect on itself as much as pos­si­ble. Guided by its own methods, science had to be f­ ree to ask its own questions, to seek out its own answers, and to generate new questions. In contrast, the masters and students who held fast to the older scheme of the seven liberal arts, which w ­ ere externally referential and aimed at outside purposes, remained conservative in a way that was theoretically incompatible with the new philosophical approach. The arts never lost their practical significance though, since they stimulated scholars to try out other disciplines, reference texts, and questions that could be considered and modified through a philosophical approach. Even Peter Abelard, one of the ­fathers of the new science, said ­after his initial success in logic that he was tempted to turn his attention to rhe­toric and grammar and to write on them.1 For monastic scholars and adherents of the older educational model, the self-­referentiality of scholastic activities aroused reservation and mistrust. They saw ­t hese practices as aloof, pretentious, and even a sinful desecration of the Christian educational tradition. The followers of the new science obviously saw ­t hings differently. Their statements indicate that they did not see scholastic science as a break from the Christian tradition at all. “I am not slighting God’s role,” affirmed Adelard of Bath, a master who focused on natu­ral science. “For what­ever exists is from him and through him. Nevertheless, dependence on God is not to be taken in blanket fashion, without distinction. One should attend to this distinction, as far as h ­ uman knowledge can go; but in the case where ­human knowledge completely fails, the m ­ atter should be referred to God.”2 It was entirely pos­si­ble to see scholastic life as a direct and effective path to a godly life. For Christians, accept-



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ing Diogenes in the barrel was much easier than accepting courtiers or Pharisees.3 We have also seen, however, that the new science did not remain purely self-­referential. As academic discourse began to make a splash in the world in the second half of the twelfth c­ entury, it was troubled by the adjacent and more outward-­facing humanistic discourse. At the same time, new fields of application w ­ ere opened up to it as Eu­ro­pean knowledge cultures took on the character of expert cultures. Through letters, we saw how scholastic knowledge was made suitable for the world through prudence gained through experience, and how topics such as “office,” “ser­v ice,” “worldly dignity,” and “expertise” grew steadily in importance. ­Here, the scholastic ideal of truth encountered a more mundane understanding of utilitas that forced science to become more compatible with the outside world. Just as we saw how the rhe­toric of the humanistic discourse was transmitted through a dif­fer­ent medium—­letters and letter collections—we ­w ill now identify other differences between pure and utility-­oriented science. One such difference is immediately apparent when we pay attention to the spatial distribution of the dif­fer­ent discourses: the pure scholastics did not often study in Italy (i.e., the northern Italian law schools) whereas the humanists who drew on the same knowledge did. The arena of action for Roscelin, William of Champeaux, Anselm of Laon, Bernard of Chartres, William of Conches, Gilbert of Poitiers, and other scholastic masters was l­imited to the heartland of France. One of the earliest humanists to travel south was Gilbert Foliot, who was prob­ably t­ here—­possibly in Bologna—in the 1120s or 1130s. Arnulf of Lisieux studied not only law in Italy but also the ars dictaminis, which he used to craft an invective letter on the lingering conflict within the church. Peter of Blois went to Bologna a while ­later, and the older Peter of Blois, who authored a treatise on the Roman l­egal foundations of canon law, prob­ably did so as well. Jocelin de Bohun, bishop of Salisbury, studied in Bologna, and so did Thomas Becket, whose pre­de­ces­sor as archbishop of Canterbury had e­ arlier lured the jurist Vacarius to E ­ ngland. Gilbert Foliot sent his nephews to Italy along with a Master David to study law in the 1160s. The letter David sent back mentions the eminent Bolognese jurists Martinus and Bulgarus in such a matter-­of-­fact way that he must have assumed them to be well known in E ­ ngland. For Stephen of Tournai, formerly a student in Bologna, the study of law remained his main focus.4 Although John of Salisbury did not attend the law schools, he watched ­those who did with g­ reat interest and registered how learning law had changed

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them. As usual, he sought to get to the heart of the m ­ atter, how philosophical and ­legal knowledge interacted with each other. We should also look at study patterns qualitatively, not just quantitively. Passing over the early history of Bolognese jurisprudence, which has been long and intensively researched, we ­will consider the perspectives of some young men who studied first in the Île-­de-­France and w ­ ere then lured across the Alps to study law. Such changes of location and disciplines w ­ ere pos­si­ble ­because the re­nais­sance of ­legal science in northern Italy occurred nearly parallel to the early period of scholasticism. Like with Paris, the academic reputation of Italian cities spread far and wide and began to attract students interested in law from distant regions.5 Around 1133, Arnulf of Lisieux felt the draw of the “science of Roman law,” which was being taught in Bologna (and soon in other communes) and was bringing visitors from all over Eu­rope.6 ­These arts-­educated visitors ­were not always sure what to expect in Italy. We saw in Chapter 3 that the structure of the liberal arts encouraged scholars to change schools from time to time in order to acquire knowledge of vari­ous subjects rather than just one. A ­ fter receiving, say, grammar lessons at one place, it was time to move on and try one’s luck elsewhere with dialectic, rhe­toric, or even the mathematical subjects of the quadrivium. Although law was not part of this canon, it was closely associated with rhe­toric and had the reputation of contributing to a comprehensive education in eloquence.7 Beyond this appeal, law school attracted arts trainees b ­ ecause the study of ­legal norms included the study of ethics, which ­were central to philosophical thinking. ­There was also an aesthetic dimension: most knew from their grammar lessons of the pleasant, rhetorically polished language associated with l­ awyers. One of t­ hose drawn to ­legal study by its rhetorical and aesthetic appeal was the younger Peter of Blois. Looking back, he remembered assuming that the virtuoso use of language in Bologna would be “intoxicating” to hear. But when he actually arrived, he realized that he had been mistaken and left in a hurry. L ­ egal practice harbored clear dangers for clerics, he l­ ater wrote, not ­because of any temptation of the senses, but ­because law as it was taught in Italy “demands the entire person.” Th ­ ose who engaged in ­legal study, which allowed the existence of no competing perspectives, w ­ ere diverted from other fruitful ­t hings.8 The new science of law was ­really not an eloquent art at all, but one of dividing and distinguishing: it taught methodical analy­sis rather than a feel for language.9



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Having only recently acquired their first taste of self-­referential dialectic, the young phi­los­o­phers who went to Bologna encountered a milieu that placed high value on its in­de­pen­dent methods and carefully guarded textual tradition. Newcomers from Paris w ­ ere advised to leave their philosophical knowledge at the gate if they wanted to get used to juristic thinking. John of Salisbury reported that his teacher Alberic had “unlearned” in Bologna every­ thing that he knew before and returned a dif­fer­ent man.10 ­Those who came back to Paris a­ fter studying law w ­ ere said to be difficult to understand. According to one satirist, many became accustomed in Italy to speaking “in new tongues and very long words.”11 Alberic may have described this situation to John a­ fter he had returned from Bologna. Other sources also rec­ord the need to unlearn Pa­ri­sian philosophy before studying law. A nearly con­temporary Roman law commentary uses this exact word (dediscere) in reference to knowledge of the arts and may have passed it on to other ­legal texts.12 In general, the young jurisprudence denied vehemently the idea that it owed anything to the rise of philosophy or the finesse of other disciplines. Even t­ oday, most experts remain convinced that the “educational adornment” of medieval rhetorical lit­er­a­ture contributed ­little to the strict juristic methods employed by the teachers of law.13 It was not easy to bridge the gap between dialectic and jurisprudence: among the approximately one hundred thousand glosses attributed to the legist Accursius, only seven are known to reference to the works of Aristotle. The avoidance is telling. He clearly knew the texts, e­ ither from his Pa­ri­sian students or from his own study at the arts schools in Italy, but he chose not to use them very often. Aristotle never played a significant role in jurisprudence except for isolated quotations.14 To take one’s place among the Bolognese jurists, one had to master certain material and well-­defined techniques of analy­sis. Only then was it pos­ si­ble to participate in the communal disciplinary effort of gathering, sorting, assembling, and distinguishing. The fact that this pro­cess was so similar to what was g­ oing on with dialectic in Paris at the same time may have contributed to the need for gestures of demarcation and autonomy from the jurists. Alternatively, the need to distinguish their methods from dialectic, the vaunted disciplina disciplinarum, may be rooted in their e­ arlier education at the arts schools (in Italy or elsewhere). Th ­ ere they came into contact with the canon of logical texts and textbooks and became acquainted with the concepts of differentiating, distinguishing, and ordering.15 ­Either way, the Bolognese ­lawyers ­were certain that their scientific efforts had nothing at all to

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do with Aristotle or Boethius. Every­thing necessary for juristic work, Accursius insisted, could be found in the Corpus iuris.16 In the next section, we w ­ ill investigate this new jurisprudence, compare and contrast it with what we have already seen, and see what ste­reo­t ypes jurists and phi­los­o­phers used to demarcate themselves from each other. Functional Science: Legists and Canonists Twelfth-­century jurisprudence manifested in two forms: the canon law (or church law) of the canonists and the Roman law of the legists. Canon law is impor­tant b ­ ecause it provided a model for a positive l­egal order and a living law capable of continuously expanding through a balanced symbiosis of legislation, case law, and jurisprudence. It also influenced Eu­ro­pean ­legal thinking in general: from the late M ­ iddle Ages on, it helped to gradually rationalize other ­legal systems. When thinkers such as Max Weber sought to explain the unique path of Eu­rope’s development, they turned to the study of canon law and its distinction from secular law on the one hand and theology on the other, which they saw as a special product of Eu­ro­pean socie­ties. B ­ ecause canon law’s development was seen as “more rationally and formally juristic” than other religious laws, they believed it to have inhibited “the emergence of theocratic hybrid institutions” that w ­ ere common “everywhere ­else.”17 One effect of rationalization was that scholars rather than judges or legislators carried out most of the ­legal interpretation. As Christoph Meyer put it, only in canon law do we see “mutual interpenetration between jurisprudence, norm creation, and practice.”18 Scholars, lawgivers, and l­ egal prac­ ti­tion­ers interacted on a regular basis. Roman law is impor­tant b ­ ecause Eu­ro­pe­a ns since the twelfth ­century have viewed it as the epitome of a self-­contained body of law. Through its examples, one learned how to deal with any ­legal m ­ atter. Even the outdated, obsolete parts like the material on ancient slavery w ­ ere helpful in this regard. Roman law taught too that the legitimacy of l­egal action was rooted not just in the judicial quest for truth, as is usually assumed, but also in observance of procedural order. The idea that procedure has greater legitimizing power than even the quest for truth was a central tenet of Roman law.19 Roman law has been described for Eu­ro­pean history as “undoubtedly by far the most impor­tant, lasting ele­ment of Roman tradition.”20 But it became so only through the mediation of medieval jurists who, in the late eleventh ­century, began to study, gloss, and comment on its texts. How did this hap-



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pen? The reemergence of the Digest (Digesta or Pandects), a collection of ancient ­legal case studies, was crucial. Largely forgotten in the seventh ­century, this “most comprehensive and scientifically valuable component of the Corpus Iuris” reappeared in the last de­cades of the eleventh ­century and helped to spur and guide the study of Roman law.21 The Digest consists of excerpts from the writings of about forty Roman ­legal experts who worked between 100 b.c.e. and 250 c.e. Assembled u ­ nder Emperor Justinian I (527–65) by a commission of palace officials, ­legal scholars, and ­lawyers, its purpose was to make available to judges and especially ­legal teachers the key texts of the increasingly inaccessible and unmanageable classical tradition. They believed that only in this form could the works and thinking of ancient (and recent) Roman jurisprudence be made useful for current l­egal practice. About six hundred years ­later, the reappearance of the Digest allowed scholars to again tap into the full breadth of Roman law. Without it, ­t here would have been no medieval legists: the methodology of the Digest was necessary for interpreting other Roman law texts that had remained known in the early M ­ iddle Ages but had failed to produce a l­ egal science on their own. ­These included Justinian’s Code (Codex), a collection of imperial constitutions, and the Institutes (Institutiones or Elementa), a teaching book for beginners crafted from juristic lit­er­a­ture and constitutions. Approved by Justinian, the Institutes had been intended for use at the law schools of Constantinople and Beirut. The final piece of Justinian’s ­great ­legal reform was the Novels (Novellae), a collection of constitutions issued by the emperor ­after the Code was completed. The Digest, Code, Institutes, and Novels formed the Corpus iuris, a term that first appeared in the twelfth ­century and was expanded in following ­century to Corpus iuris civilis. It indicated above all that the canon of Roman ­legal science—­unlike the reference texts at the philosophical schools—­ was closed and defined. In the preface to the Digest, Justinian had forbidden the writing of commentaries, even declaring it a crime of forgery to do so.22 The compilation of this body of texts in only a few years would not have been pos­si­ble without the institutional backing of the emperor. It was a genuine po­liti­cal act motivated by and completed u ­ nder the supervision of the court. It was hoped that, following one po­liti­cal crisis ­after another, the reimposition of classical Roman law would lead to a re­nais­sance of classical Roman culture that would help to alleviate pre­sent difficulties.23 When scholars in northern Italy became aware of the Digest again in the eleventh c­ entury,

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they did so in a culture that still maintained some aspects of this ancient written ­legal tradition and was thus primed for new impulses in this direction.24 Still, the rediscovery of the Digest and the intensive study of Roman law that followed seemed to contemporaries to be a turning point of the utmost significance. Before the time of the legendary ­legal scholar Irnerius (or Wernerius), t­ hese law books had been severely neglected and, according to Burchard of Ursperg, had not been studied at all. Writing in retrospect, Burchard drew parallels between the renewed study in Italy and events happening in France at the time: even as scholars in the South ­were making pro­gress in jurisprudence, so too w ­ ere saintly men in the North taking resolute action “against the heretic Peter Abelard.”25 ­There was also a growing sense in Italy that the conflict between the papacy and secular rulers might at last be solved through intellectual effort— by differentiating concepts—­rather than by the sword. Putting values into binding form through laws and reinforcing them with punitive threats seemed to signal improvement. Pro­cess seemed more conducive to solving conflict than did appeals to the weaker ethical norms of the recent past. As written ­legal norms became more prominent, much new effort was dedicated to producing a canon of codified law.26 In the urban communes, constitutions and charters also helped to resolve the internal conflicts over social questions and po­liti­cal participation that had grown from the eleventh ­century on. As town council, podestà, and seigneurie gradually took over the rulership and administration of cities, they also employed l­awyers, notaries, iudices, causidici, sapientes, and legum docti.27 They did not see rationalizing law as a break from the past so much as the ­simple utilization of one of their native Italian strengths. The reputation of ­legal study was further enhanced by its use as a weapon in conflicts between cities, emperors, and popes. Although the Bolognese teachers had initially backed Frederick Barbarossa in his strug­gle against the Italian cities in the 1150s, they ­later aided the communes and the Lombard League, an alliance of cities that became the archenemy of the emperor. While leaders of philosophical schools ­were referred to as magistri (or for greater clarity, magistri scholarium), ­legal teachers became known as doctores.28 The young l­egal science interacted with rulers and cities, but it never committed itself entirely to po­liti­cal concerns. It remained primarily academic even as it fostered the emergence of a class of urban professionals at the courts of lords and in the cities.29 These men tended to backbite: one anonymous



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Italian joked that although the kings north of the Alps filled positions of power with l­egal experts, they never r­ eally managed to grasp the basics of Roman law.30 At the same time, the position of ­legal doctores in the cities was changing. The situation of the Bolognese law teachers at the end of the eleventh ­century was about as dif­fer­ent from the one at the French schools as one can imagine. They were not wandering teachers at first but rather local personnel who came from within the city itself. They w ­ ere regarded as experts and prac­ti­tion­ers and did not teach at first.31 Only as the Bolognese school ­really took shape around 1150 did teaching the leges become attractive to both natives and foreigners. The doctor iuris (or doctor legum) transformed into a teaching position whose function was widely recognized, highly desired, and well integrated into the po­liti­cal affairs of cities and kingdoms. Doctores throughout the twelfth c­ entury came mostly from the upper crust of the city, including its contado. Of the fourteen legists studied by Nikolai Wandruszka, eleven came from this class.32 In dealing with this situation, we must be careful of labeling their communication as self-­referential or not. The early science of law does seem to have been self-­referential in its internal communication: doctores established their own reference texts, accepted ways of arguing, and distinction techniques while keeping outside influences, such as con­temporary ­legal codifications, at a distance. Law required so much schooling that even alumni saw it as somewhat esoteric: what united them was common partnership in the “secrets of law.”33 However strange it might seem, jurisprudence’s firm commitment to its own internal rules and logic contributed to its real impact on the outside world.34 More so than philosophy or theology (the latter of which was influenced by common opinions regarding correct belief), l­egal science became fully embedded into Eu­rope’s systems of rulership, religion, and economy.35 If jurisprudence had one lesson to teach the other disciplines it would be how to play an active role in the world without compromising key disciplinary beliefs and values. By ignoring popu­lar whims and remaining self-­contained, it achieved an optimum functionality that allowed it to serve society as a ­whole. Beyond just a science, it was a profession in the ser­v ice of all. ­Legal practice played a key role in the teaching of law. We find many well-­ known teachers as judges and advocates, in the ser­v ice of the podestà, or working for bishops, archbishops, and popes. Canon law played an even

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greater role in applying ­legal knowledge than did Roman law. According to one witness at the end of the twelfth c­ entury, academic law had initially been rejected by secular princes and gained ac­cep­tance only through the care and support of the church.36 Canon law was successful, in part, b ­ ecause it was a continuously updated, living law. Canonists ­were also very interested in the study of Roman law, even if they found some of its princi­ples to be overly strict and in need of some Christian moderation. But the same was not true in the other direction: the legists only slowly acquired a taste for canon law.37 Church law did not acquire a closed canon of reference texts u ­ ntil 1582, when an Editio Romana of the Corpus iuris canonici was compiled on the model of Roman law. Before then, the most coherent canonical texts ­were collections of canons assembled from two main sources: the decrees of regional synods and of general councils dating back to late antiquity, and papal ­legal decisions (decretals). ­These collections of written ecclesiastical norms, such as the Decretum of Bishop Burchard of Worms, ­were widely copied, transmitted, and used to guide l­egal decisions. The most defining text of canonical jurisprudence was Gratian’s Decretum, the work of a man about whom ­little is known. Begun a l­ ittle ­earlier than Abelard’s Sic et non, a shorter first version appeared first and then a longer form around 1140.38 Gratian also gathered conflicting texts but resolved them using somewhat dif­fer­ent methods. The original name of the work alludes to the harmony of m ­ usic and stars: Concordantia discordantium canonum, or Concordance of Discordant Canons.39 Assembled from almost four thousand excerpts, it cites from the decrees of synods and councils, from papal decretals and patristic lit­er­a­ture, from the Bible and penitential books, from the Corpus iuris civilis, and from other sources. The arrival of the comprehensive Decretum brought to an end a phase of canon law dominated by diverse and narrow collections. Over six hundred manuscripts survive, making it one of the most widely read works of the M ­ iddle Ages. Soon a­ fter the Decretum appeared, canonists also began to work on the growing mass of con­temporary papal legislation. By the time of Pope Alexander III, so many decretals ­were being issued that it became necessary to collect, sort, and systematize them in order to eliminate contradictions among them and with the Decretum. During the pontificate of Innocent III, canon law achieved a balance between its legislative, judicial, and scholarly tasks. Following Roman law, maximum functionality was the goal. By separating itself from the acts of legislation and enforcement, scientific jurisprudence acquired its special character.



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Mutual Perceptions Shape the Habitus Proximity and Difference According to its protagonists, the re­nais­sance of learned law had nothing at all to do with the con­temporary development of new philosophical ideas in France. It owed nothing to that “époque boécienne” or the conflict between realists and nominalists over universals.40 “We must accord higher faith to the authority of Roman law,” explained the author of an early law book from Pavia, “than to that of rhe­toric.” The author proceeded to expound on his reference texts not through the linguistic perspective usually applied to older works but through a juristic approach that guided the treatment of individual passages.41 Accursius asked the question again in a ­later gloss: “does jurisprudence presuppose theological knowledge?” His answer was clear and expansive: “No, b ­ ecause every­t hing can be found in the Corpus iuris.” Already in the Digest itself, the science of law was described as “true philosophy” (D.1.1.1.1).42 The canonists felt the same, rejecting the transfer of philosophical techniques to the canons. Alan of Lille, a perceptive theologian with ­great sensitivity for dif­fer­ent disciplinary approaches, would surely have agreed if he had been asked. All sciences, he argued, are based on their own rules, which mark the borders between them and their neighboring disciplines.43 While his support for disciplinary borders is not surprising, his goal was not to discourage scholars from applying their own methods to texts of other disciplines. Many scholars in the early philosophical schools learned that it could be very productive to tap into the vast diversity of learned capital. Despite this talk of bound­aries, certain similarities and differences enabled communication between the truth-­seeking episteme of philosophy and the ideal of jurisprudential utility. One similarity was local concentration: Paris had the same magnetic effect on phi­los­o­phers and theologians as Bologna did on jurists.44 A difference, however, was that in the schools on the Reno, more so than on the Seine, it was the sons of local families who set the tone. Only in the second half of the c­ entury did outside law teachers manage to gain a foothold in Bologna and help establish it as the center of ­legal studies on the ­mental map of Eu­rope. Bologna was even more than that: within jurisprudence, it represented a certain juristic style. Teachers who moved ­t here, such as the En­g lishman Richard, felt compelled to change their citation methods and to rewrite their

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previous works alla Bolognese. Bologna was always at the vanguard: keeping up with the latest disciplinary developments meant keeping tabs on who was writing ­there.45 Kenneth Pennington has studied this trend among the canonists who worked on papal decretals around 1200. Even as the popes issued an abundance of new judgments, the jurists worked at once to emancipate jurisprudence from the legislative act and to come to grips with the material. In this way, the young canonistic science became autopoietic in its treatment of decretals: new questions and themes began to arise and develop spontaneously.46 Bologna and a few other regional centers provided space for this inner dynamic of inclusion and exclusion. Although l­ egal science established itself in many places through the university framework during the thirteenth ­century, Bologna remained the center of its academic culture. More than just a city in Emilia-­Romagna, it became a topographical text of cultural self-­ understanding much like Paris.47 During our de­cades, works by outsiders ­were rarely given much attention in Bologna, a practice that modern ­legal history also maintained for a long time.48 The techniques of ­legal science ­were self-­referential in how jurists routinely a­ dopted the glosses of their pre­de­ces­sors in their own works and in how their teaching imparted to beginners a special, juristic way of thinking. This last tendency was somewhat more pronounced among the jurists than among the theologians, whose discipline also handled norms. During the following c­ entury, the two disciplines would strug­gle passionately over claims to validity and relative influence.49 One way to acclimatize new law students, as in other disciplines, was to purposefully subvert common sense. Suppose a fisherman catches a fish so large that when he pulls it onboard, its wriggling overturns the boat. Both are then caught in the net of a second fisherman who pulls them onto his boat. To whom does the fish belong? The doctor legum would pre­sent cases like this to his students and listen to arguments for and against pos­si­ble solutions. The professor would then offer his own solution, supplying relevant evidence from Roman law but also showing that simply parroting the ­legal text did not suffice. It was also impor­tant to become familiar with the law and reflect on it enough to identify cases that ­were similar in nature. According to disciplinary expectations, similar cases should generally lead to similar solutions. Another affront to common sense was the way that jurists prioritized procedure when dealing with norms. Consider the case of a judge who already knows the truth of a case but also knows that strict adherence to procedural standards would lead to a result contrary to the truth. Should the procedural



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standards be set aside in ­favor of conscience? The correct answer for the jurists was no, since judging in this way opened up the flood gates to endless ­legal difficulties.50 For both canon and Roman law, the lecture hall was the place to practice thinking like a jurist. Room for dissent was allowed, and from the very beginning schools and perspectives formed around individual doctors and their students, leading to rivalries. To “scandalize” (scandalizare) a competing position, to refute it through scholarly ingenuity and publicly discredit it, was an achievement that earned a doctor re­spect from his followers and even from princes.51 While examining parallels between the schools of phi­los­o­phers and jurists, we should remain alert for differences. The jurists, as they strug­gled to apply ­legal norms to real-­life situations and to weigh lived experience against the law, never lost sight of the old norm of correctness (rectitudo) found at the older liberal arts schools. Although the phi­los­o­phers had replaced it with a new ideal of truth, the jurists ­were more concerned with correctly navigating between facts and l­egal positions.52 They did emphasize a formal concept of truth, one that proceeded from the facts established by the court but was distinct from the ­actual truth. Only in the era of the commentators did jurisprudence and philosophy begin to interact in a way that brought ­these discourses of truth and correctness into productive dialog. One can see it especially in the works of Bartolus de Saxoferrato (d. 1357) and Baldus de Ubaldis (d. 1400).53 The practical utility of jurisprudence became apparent e­ arlier than that of the other sciences, which caused suspicion of jurists’ careerism, greed, and ambition. When theologians tried to make their voices heard in the following ­century, it was the ­legal scholars who they mea­sured up against in their texts and who they regarded as their toughest competition.54 The jurists, who long believed that theory without practice was useless, responded by turning utility into a weapon against the other disciplines. Merely “classifying and subdividing, defining and describing, giving out rules and commands,” one jurist wrote, was like “letting thunder sound and then withholding the rain.” It is well established that the glossators of Roman law w ­ ere active in the courts. And even if their academic work did not proceed directly from their courtroom activities, they clearly expected that it would have some effect on ­legal practice. They believed that theory and practice could be effective only in combination with each other.55 Their attitudes ­toward reference texts w ­ ere also dif­fer­ent. While ancient philosophical writing entered into the canon in batches, the textual basis of canon law changed frequently, especially a­ fter the second half of the twelfth

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c­ entury. Decrees and decretals w ­ ere constantly added, and some even rescinded, forcing canonists to change their ideas and activities accordingly. Gratian himself had vehemently affirmed the right of the pope “to enact new laws.”56 Canon law thus possessed a “living” body of reference texts more so than did philosophy or theology. ­Things ­were dif­fer­ent with the legists. They made only a few modern additions to the Corpus iuris, most famously Frederick Barbarossa’s privilege granted to the Bolognese scholars around 1155. The so-­called Littera Florentina (or Codex Florentinus), which transmitted the ancient text of the Digest and was kept in Pisa u ­ ntil 1406, was revered like a relic. Visitors ­were required to take off their caps and to pre­sent a ­humble demeanor when they entered the room where the manuscript was held.57 Both positions, the reverence for the ancient text of the Digest and the constant monitoring of new papal laws, led to internal competition over correct interpretations and approaches to systematization. When a good state was reached in each field, a set of glosses would be declared the glossa ordinaria and required for use by all teachers. The pro­cess then repeated itself as experts took up the task of interpreting ­t hese new standardized texts. A major difference was that a juristic estate emerged around 1200, an ordo that regulated the conduct, honor, and marital be­hav­ior of its members. Such a development would not have been pos­si­ble at the philosophical schools. Johannes Fried has charted this development in Bologna, shedding light on the behavioral customs of jurists from Martinus Gosia, who was of noble origin, to Hugo de Porta Ravennate, who built a tower near the Piazza di Porta Ravegnana to demonstrate his advancement. Doctors of law took the dignity and splendor of t­ hese aristocratic judges (iudices) very seriously. Some even trained in wielding weapons.58 Such be­hav­ior was miles away from the phi­los­o­phers and their ostentatious disregard for their own physicality. Already at this point, the idea that ­these two vastly dif­fer­ent groups would soon be united ­under the umbrella of the university might seem amazing. But ­because the two ­were forced to deal with each other, a productive symbiosis emerged between “truth” and “utility.” For now, let us dig a l­ittle deeper into how t­ hese two milieus perceived each other. Demarcating Gestures: Displays of Mind and Body Men like John of Salisbury and Domingo Gundisalvo, who ­were interested in both groups, tended to focus on the differences in how they thought and



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behaved. John spared neither side from criticism, condemning both the careerism of the jurists and the aloof detachment of the phi­los­o­phers. Why does the “pure, s­ imple dialectician” bother with questions like “­whether affirmation is also enunciation” when he could be asking relevant questions like “­whether plea­sure is good” or “­whether one should ­labor when in need.” The knowledge of the dialecticians was indeed rich, but it was too often treated as art for art’s sake. Otto of Freising had mused a few years e­ arlier that the ancient Greeks towered above their neighbors intellectually yet still had to import seeds. The Athenians possessed the wisest laws in the world but had no bread.59 Among the humanists, John of Salisbury’s par­t ic­u ­lar focus on scholastic self-­reflection and on the need to combine theoretical and practical thinking made his work essential reading on both subjects. From the other direction, the phi­los­o­phers tended to scoff at the overconfidence of the law students and how their intelligence rarely matched their demeanor. One story tells how they would solemnly spread out in the lecture hall, taking two or three spots to lay out their oversized manuscripts of the Digest decorated in gold. With their pencils, they marked it up with asterisks and lines (asteriscos et obelos), putting lead to gold. When they opened their mouths, however, it became obvious that they w ­ ere childish. Still though, their actions ­were fash­ion­able and caused a sensation among onlookers. The author of this biting account, Daniel of Morley, recorded that even in ­England ­people w ­ ere forgetting Aristotle and Plato in ­favor of “Titius” and “Seius.” He assumed that his En­glish readers knew enough Roman law jargon to understand the joke.60 The most extreme critics ­were suspicious of any knowledge that had practical value. Some argued that astrolabes as scientific instruments belonged to the theoretical space of the quadrivium rather than to the practical sphere of topographical orientation. Some even employed the word planisphaerum to make the astrolabe sound more theoretical and thus ancient.61 Giving works Greek titles became fash­ion­able with the phi­los­o­phers, as we have already seen, and some of their meanings remain a mystery even t­oday. Remoteness from practice was seen as the height of beauty. Raymond of Marseille, who authored an astrolabe treatise around this time, warned that students should be strictly questioned as to why they wanted to learn to use the sophisticated disks. If it was for material gain, stalwart teachers w ­ ere encouraged to exclude them.62 The argument for utility prevailed among the jurists and their allies. Aristotle and Plato, Richard of Ely wrote, should be read by ­people who delight in invention and find solace in minutiae. “Write not subtle ­t hings, but useful

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t­ hings!” he urged.63 Protonational clichés and disciplinary perceptions also began to merge: one Spanish canonist wrote that his countrymen ­were men of action while the French w ­ ere loudmouths. In Iberian eyes, the men of Paris tended to blather incessantly about scientific quibbles. Experienced jurists developed practical advice lit­er­a­ture to guide newcomers on how to best apply their know-­how in the ­legal profession.64 With their prospects laid out, ­legal trainees could plan how to derive gain from intellectual activity and to live well. Jurisprudence, it was said, “ennobles its learners, doubles their honor and income, and allows professors to rule the world and stroll about the imperial court.” 65 Even in the twelfth ­century, it was believed that academic fields could be distinguished by their habitus. The truth seekers and the disciples of utility ­were associated with two diametrically opposed camps. The former, the phi­ los­o­phers and theologians, tended to deemphasize their subjectivity. In their works (but not outside them), they ostentatiously drove their egos into the background, using impersonal phrases such as “it should be said” instead of attributing opinions and ideas to individuals. They also revived the ancient practice of referring to their own clumsiness and inability to do practical ­things. Incompetence and disor­ga­ni­za­tion seemed to reflect the denial of self. They chose to follow in the footsteps of Thales of Miletus, who fell into a hole while looking at the stars and was scolded by a Thracian maid.66 The jurists, on the other hand, cultivated a down-­to-­earth, business-­ minded image. Unlike the phi­los­o­phers, they utilized the word “I” consistently. Vincentius Hispanus, who taught Roman and canon law in Bologna between 1210 and 1220, wrote: “Gandulphus and o ­ thers among the antiqui have said that marriage is indissoluble, but I, Vincentius, think not.” And several more times: “Johannes Teutonicus said it like that, so he differs from me, Vincentius, in his wording”; “but I, Vincentius, say . . .”; “I, however, say . . .” We might recall that even Abelard, who showed ­little regard for the opinions of his rivals, spoke vaguely of “­others who think, however, that . . .” 67 Jurists w ­ ere much more likely to name names, albeit brusquely. Disciplinary agon seems to have been the elixir that drove their teaching and academic production. It was advantageous to be as self-­confident as Placentinus, who denounced the legendary Four Doctors of Bologna, Irnerius’s students, as sorry figures. But one who dished out criticism had to be prepared to receive it too.68 Pillius spoke of his own opinion as if it was literally the truth (iudicio meo, quod est veritas) and claimed that ­those who disagreed with him only betrayed their own ignorance.69 Huguccio criticized previous interpretations



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of the Decretum in order to portray his own readings in a better light, and his gaze did not spare anyone famous or other­wise. Against Rufinus, he wrote: “But that is wrong. It is no solution, and if it is, then it is an incomprehensible one.”70 In another case, he claimed that every­t hing that had been said so far regarding a par­tic­u­lar question of procedure was bad and that he had to set the ­matter straight with something “precise, certain, and Catholic.”71 Vincentius Hispanus also showed l­ittle restraint. He did not trust Alanus and Tancred b ­ ecause the former was an En­glishman and a coward while the latter was a brain-­dead Lombard.72 The thinking styles and lifestyles of the jurists owed much to competition. As Johannes Fried’s excellent study showed, they competed over ­legal m ­ atters with the same elitist attitude that they presented to the outside world. We should not be surprised that their habitus was so vis­i­ble. Through pictorial repre­sen­ta­tions in manuscripts and tomb monuments, which Andrea von Hülsen-­Esch has studied, they also made efforts to represent themselves as splendid and wealthy.73 Did the ­lawyers r­ eally look any better than the phi­los­o­phers? Abelard claimed that he was above average in terms of attractiveness and that he had a certain effect on ­women.74 On the other hand, the monk Rupert of Deutz, who saw the new philosophy of his day as dangerous, feared that he would fare poorly in a public confrontation ­because of his short stature and corpulence.75 Appearance had played ­little role in the philosophical vision of the ideal person (for example, the homo quadratus). The only discipline in which we find any discussion of looks is, not surprisingly, rhe­toric (as in Adelard of Bath’s De eodem et diverso).76 Neglect of one’s appearance was part of the philosophical habitus: it served to accentuate the gap between outer pre­sen­ta­ tion and intellect. As Cicero had said, wisdom is often hidden ­under a dirty ­little robe. Alan of Lille wanted his tombstone to state that although he had been a small man with a goiter, he had known all that one could hope to know as a ­human being. Hugh Primas, another g­ reat intellect, was apparently misshapen. Even Aristotle was depicted as a pale old man with an emaciated body. Dame Dialectic, his comrade, bore the wear and tear of studious toil.77 Jurists treated appearances quite differently. Thirteenth-­century chroniclers identified a par­t ic­u ­lar ideal at the intersection of eloquence, beauty, strength, wealth, and ­legal practice. The Franciscan Salimbene of Parma articulated the idea in numerous cases: one of his relatives was “a famous judge, tested in b ­ attle”; t­ here was a l­egal scholar named Martin “whose palace lay by the sea”; “some among them, especially the judges, ­were dressed in scarlet robes”; Hugh, the son of Gerard of Cassio, was “an educated man, a judge,

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and an assessor with an extremely friendly nature who constantly traveled around with the podestà acting as his advocate”; “a beautiful w ­ oman, plump and voluptuous . . . ​came from Trento where she had been married to a notary with whom she had two exceedingly beautiful d ­ aughters.”78 Salimbene did not restrict his praise of outer appearances to ­legal experts, but he clearly treated beauty as proof of earthly success. ­These differences w ­ ere more than just stylistic. They indicate that the two discourses of scholasticism and humanism, which have occupied us for two chapters now, did not arise through the internal differentiation of an older, homogeneous princi­ple of “higher” knowledge, but came into existence separately and then merged only ­later. This merger, as we will see, occurred only b ­ ecause of the university, which came to h ­ ouse both the seekers of 79 truth and the agents of utility ­under one roof. ­There, both interacted with and enriched each other. This pro­cess played out more in everyday scientific practice (and in the production of academic lit­er­a­ture) than it did in theory. As both discourses settled into the group forms and culture of the schola, they accepted the dynamic student-­teacher bonds, the intimacy, and the competitive relationships that dictated the tone ­t here. So often the starting point for treatments of science, the university w ­ ill be the main topic of our final chapter.

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“We, the University” The Scholars’ Guild Paris Just ­After 1200 Cellular Division and Combination During the twelfth ­century, the new schools wandered far from the program of the seven liberal arts. The older style of “education” as formal instruction was replaced by an idea of “philosophy” oriented more ­toward the advancement of truth than t­ oward the student. Insiders no longer had to embody abstract knowledge so much as focus on a defined object of inquiry and a prescribed way of life. Leading the life of the phi­los­o­pher became a key part of philosophizing itself and rendered obsolete the old connection between the artes liberales and their extrinsic purposes. Combining the aesthetic with the morally and spiritually valuable was no longer seen as essential to acquiring knowledge.1 In the following c­ entury, Thomas Aquinas soberly recorded what was obvious by around 1200: “The seven liberal arts cannot sufficiently divide up theoretical philosophy.”2 Obviously, the two concepts had come to overlap by this time. Philosophy, once a collective term for the knowledge of antiquity, had been “substantiated” while the seven liberal arts had been transformed into an umbrella term for every­t hing below the higher studies of medicine, law, and theology.3 ­These developments are not surprising given all the new and exciting material being introduced at this time: the cosmological knowledge of Macrobius and Plato; the natu­ral philosophy of Aristotle; and the theoretical discussions on how to or­ga­nize knowledge using Arabic disciplinary divisions. The Pa­ri­sian phi­los­o­phers noted with interest how the scholar Al-­Fārābī (d. c. 950) had managed to overcome the distinction between “Arabic” and “foreign” science by introducing a more flexible and compatible system.4 Scholars such as Gerard of Cremona and Domingo Gundisalvo also did a g­ reat deal to

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make knowledge of Arabic scientific divisions available, even if adopting them true to scale was never realistic. Al-­Fārābī’s lack of interest in medicine, for example, was unacceptable to Gerard. But the translated and adapted works did radiate a compelling sense of impartiality in how they identified provinces of knowledge and assigned them a place in the imaginary cosmos of philosophy. Why not consider nigromancy, agriculture, navigation, optics, and alchemy as parts of physics? Gundisalvo found nothing to indicate other­wise in the theoretical discussions of the ancient phi­los­o­phers.5 New disciplines w ­ ere discovered and named both on the drawing board of scientific theory and through practice. We have already seen, for example, how theology and canon law diverged in the second half of the twelfth c­ entury. New questions ­were asked: what exactly was the difference between l­egal norms and norms of utility and moral good?6 Did law need to be separated from ethics and from the prudent advice giving of rhetorical lit­er­a­ture? For their part, the legists and canonists insisted that law was indeed dif­fer­ent from philosophy and even more so from grammar and ethics. In this way, ethics emerged as its own discipline well before a translation of Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics became available in Latin Eu­rope.7 The same applied to politics, which saw growing interest in the twelfth ­century long before Aristotle’s Politeia was made known through the translation of William of Moerbeke.8 Natu­ral philosophy also developed its own character at this time, a pro­cess that has been described by modern scholars as the “discovery of nature,” similar to the “awakening of metaphysics.” 9 Even aspects of pragmatic lit­er­a­ture led to new thinking about fields and disciplines. The teaching of correct letter composition (ars dictaminis), notarial activity (ars notaria), and poetry (ars poetriae), for example, w ­ ere separated from each other and acquired their own textbooks. No less than six treatises on the art of versification are known from between 1175 and 1275, and from the same rhetorical core emerged separate instructions for preaching (ars praedicandi) and disputing (ars disputationis).10 Modern specialists have understandably described ­these developments as disciplinary “revolutions”: for Harold Berman, it was a revolution in law; for Walter Ullmann, a “conceptual revolution” of the thirteenth ­century; for Curtis Wilson, a revolutionary mathematization of physics; for Michael Wilks, a quin­tes­sen­tial philosophical revolution.11 The cosmos of knowledge appears even more diverse when we look closely at the multitude of currents and positions within t­ hese subjects. Contemporaries observed t­ hese differences and peculiarities too, as we saw in the case of John of Salisbury. His critical eye viewed the heterogeneity of his day as a



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valuable asset. Visiting Paris again in 1164, he praised “the diverse pursuits of the phi­los­o­phers” t­ here as well as the state of the food market and the cheerfulness of the ­people.12 The plurality of sciences could be conceived as an sign of pro­gress! Far gone w ­ ere the days of the anti-­dialecticians who had interpreted diversity and the disputes between schools and positions as telltale signs of distance from God.13 Gundisalvo, for his part, seems to have changed his view over the course of his c­ areer. A cultural pessimist at first, he saw the many disciplines as evidence that wisdom and philosophy had abandoned the world, leaving b ­ ehind only fragments. But by the time he wrote his treatise De divisione philosophiae, he saw ­t hings differently. The multitude of disciplines was now a good t­ hing, an indicator that the pre­sent era was keeping pace with the “fortunate e­ arlier age” of ancient wisdom.14 This knowledge did not travel along separate paths or in separate directions. In no way w ­ ere special schools for individual disciplines on the horizon of Eu­ro­pean science. Quite the contrary: the experience of diversity stimulated new thinking on the general coherence of the disciplines and how they might come to exist together u ­ nder one ideal roof. The Guild of Masters and Scholars Older descriptions of the early university have focused on the interconnectedness of the thinking ­t here, on disciplinary content, on the commanding importance of dialectic, and on the still-­manageable number of reference texts shared among the dif­fer­ent sciences. We ­will see that the social form of the schola and its corresponding forms of communication played a decisive role too. The way teachers and students argued with each other as they worked through the material, the emotional bonds they shared, and the entanglement of their intimate relationships (as described ­earlier) generated and sustained the life and the work of the schools. The character of this social form, of the schola, made it pos­si­ble soon a­ fter 1200 to combine the diverse local schools into a universitas magistrorum et scholarium, a university. One of the most renowned jurists of the thirteenth c­ entury wrote that the individual sciences and their contents differed at the universities but that they formed an interconnected body.15 Along t­ hese lines, it is pos­si­ble to think of the individual schools as social groups in the sense of modern sociology: they ­were associations of p ­ eople that lasted some amount of time; acted according to certain rules; acknowledged their own character, traditions, and customs; and possessed an internal structure (in the case of the disciplines by

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dividing up functions, separating students from teachers, acknowledging se­ niority of membership, and prioritizing favored pupils).16 ­People already knew how to formalize and legalize such groups in the late twelfth c­ entury: the residents of cities and members of religious communities had done ­t hese same ­t hings when they formed into “civic communities” (universitates civium) and other similarly structured associations. On its own, universitas meant nothing more than “collective” or “group.” When writers addressed letters to universitas vestra, they would say quite simply “you all.” But when the term was used more specifically, for example when speaking to a universitas judaeorum, it signaled that an other­wise amorphous crowd of ­people had formed into a legally ­v iable entity through collective action—­t hat is, a corporate “Jewish community.”17 This view was affirmed in the thirteenth ­century as ­legal theory came to recognize the universitates as ­legal subjects and persons. In this regard, practice and common opinion actually preceded theory by several de­cades by recognizing the actions of both the members of ­t hese groups and their opponents before 1200. The term universitas was first used in Cologne around 1180 to describe how its judges and juries functioned as the leading organ of a corporation that included all its citizens. Informal social groups could thus receive recognition as guilds merely through f­ree association. Otto von Gierke explained that in t­ hese ­free ­unions “the ultimate basis of their connection is the f­ree w ­ ill of t­hose connected.” They came into being through consensus and a contract, one that in most cases consisted of an oath.18 This exact pro­cess occurred around 1200 in Paris, Bologna, and Oxford. In each place, the local masters and students formed an association, an educational universitas. They swore an oath that merged them into a ­legal entity and obliged them to aid each other in all l­ egal ­matters. Once the social pro­cesses of group formation are considered, the early universities clearly owe much less to the monastic and cathedral schools than to the medieval guilds that had first appeared in the eighth c­ entury but r­ eally took off in the eleventh c­ entury.19 The first recorded use of the term universitas by the schoolmen themselves occurred in 1221, when they confidently introduced themselves as “we, the collective (universitas) of Pa­ri­sian teachers and students” in a charter transferring certain rights to the local Dominicans.20 The first formal recognition of the university as a body occurred about a de­cade e­ arlier in 1208/9, when the legally minded Pope Innocent III responded to a letter from the Pa­ri­sian masters by describing them as a “society” (societas), a “collective” (universitas), an “association” (communio), and a “partnership” (consortium).21 The



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young university had apparently asked the pope to approve the establishment of an executive committee of eight masters to discipline internal dissenters. While the university prob­ably had internal statutes by this time, external recognition increased their effectiveness.22 The masters had tried to assert control like this in 1201 but had been thwarted on their own. Their opponents had successfully denigrated them with the labels commonly used against the guilds: “plots” (conspirationes), “conspiracies” (coniurationes), and illegally established organ­izations (constitutiones) that forced their members to swear illicit oaths (aliquam obligationem iuramento).23 Guilds evoked strong opinions. To some, they seemed a good way to make life better. To o ­ thers, they w ­ ere a “festering sore on the ­people” (tumor plebis).24 From ­here, let us travel backward in time in search of clues as to when exactly the Pa­ri­sian teacher-­entrepreneurs began to view their work as a collaborative proj­ect. Stepping back about twenty years, the retrospective account of one former student shows how the schools w ­ ere or­ga­nized t­here around 1180. The masters would gather together with their students, and t­ here was scarcely room for so many p ­ eople. One of them would then propose a difficult question of Roman law, canon law, or theology to address in a lecture. When our author’s turn came on a certain Sunday (apparently the time for canon law questions), pretty much every­one showed up to listen. The lecture served as his initiation into the circle of masters, and he recalled proudly how his polished lines teeming with literary erudition had earned him much praise. Our author may well be exaggerating his own achievements, but other evidence confirms the practice of holding inaugural lectures (inceptiones) before the assembled body of teachers and students.25 The formation of the university was a product of joint academic work combined with shared po­liti­cal and social interests. From round 1180 at the latest, this common ground led to regular meetings dedicated to intellectual exchange and to formalizing admission into the group. It is unclear when exactly the masters began to require a formal oath, but some evidence of the practice appears around 1208. Forming a universitas from the individual scholae seems to have provided a sense of strength while allowing them to maintain their distinct scientific perspectives.26 Natalie Gorochov has estimated that t­ here ­were around 130 to 140 masters of vari­ous subjects in Paris in the early days of the university around 1208. Many additional figures ­were prob­ably ­there who left no literary traces.27 One excited con­temporary remarked that nothing like it had ever occurred

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before in Athens or in Egypt. The new situation, he claimed, had become pos­si­ble not only ­because of the quality of the city and its markets, but also ­because of the protection the French king Philip II and his ­father had granted to the scholars. The arts, law, medicine, and theology had all become highly regarded t­ here. The formation of this new body of teachers seemed to reduce, even eliminate, the competitive pressure between them.28 The disor­ga­ni­za­tion of the students also played a role in the unification of the university. Serious estimates put their total number at around three thousand to four thousand—­enough for the quantity to ­really ­matter.29 In order to gain advantage in the competitive market for food and housing, they gathered into larger associations beyond their scholae. Regional connections also played a role h ­ ere, as can be seen in a brawl that occurred in 1200. The chronicler Roger of Howden rec­ords that it began when the servant of a noble German student got into a fight with a local innkeeper, which ended with the servant receiving a beating and having his wine vessel broken. The student, who was a leading candidate to become bishop of Liège, would not let the m ­ atter rest. Together with his German compatriots, he went to the tavern and roughed up the innkeeper. According to Roger, “the German clerici rioted” to such a degree that tempers in the city flared up and satisfaction was demanded. The royal provost (praepositus), who knew where the Germans lived, gathered a group of armed men and attacked, resulting in many injuries and several deaths. ­After what must have been long negotiations, the king ruled in f­ avor of the students and issued his famous privilege granting them l­egal security and immunity from secular courts.30 This brawl was hardly the first town-­and-­gown conflict. Such fights, which sometimes resulted in deaths, continued to accompany and shape the history of the universities. They ­were manifestations of a complicated real­ity that underpinned ­these urban social groups, their interactions, their competition over resources, and their perceptions of masculinity.31

The University of Contrasts A Conservative Revolution: Regulation, Peer Pressure, Mandatory Attendance . . . Talk of the origin, or rather emergence, of the university was in the air in the early thirteenth ­century. As we have seen, it also took form in two other spots



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besides Paris: in Bologna, the center of Roman and canon law, and in Oxford, a modest En­glish town on the upper Thames. ­Those inclined to see academic institutions as the guardians of knowledge can easily interpret the history of Eu­ro­pean science from this point on as a narrative of pro­gress. The university model spread from Paris, Bologna, and Oxford to the rest of Eu­rope and then to other continents while its gradu­ ates continued to take on new roles and functions in society. Knowledge became power, as Martin Kintzinger aptly put it.32 This orga­nizational structure, however, did not leave untouched the academic fruit it was supposed to protect. We must ask too how the early university affected knowledge, how it contributed to the development of academic willfulness, and what the consequences w ­ ere for the scholastic milieu. A surprising decision was made at the early university in Paris to reinstitute the seven liberal arts. Students ­t here entered an arts faculty rather than a philosophical one, which seems to contradict much of our narrative so far. This renewal of an academic schema that the schools had only recently abandoned also heralded other changes: official curricula appeared; certain subjects ­were banned from teaching and reading; students ­were required to wear clothing that reflected their clerical affiliation; and the disciplines w ­ ere tamed by integrating them into a university-­wide memorial community. Why did this happen? The answer lies with the popes and bishops who guided the early universities and their subsequent academic developments. A good entry point to this question is the letter from 1208/9 in which Innocent III described the young university as a universitas und consortium.33 In it, the pope called out the evils of “certain current liberal arts teachers,” referring not to all arts teachers, but only a small circle who ­were using “modern” or “con­temporary” methods. Apparently, this group wanted nothing to do with the regulations of the partnership of Pa­ri­sian masters. According to Innocent, the merger of the Pa­ri­sian theologians, canonists, and arts teachers was actually a reaction to ­these moderni. He identified three ways in which they deviated from the path of their pre­de­ces­sors: they wore inappropriate clothing; they ignored the established format of lectures and disputations; and they failed to take part in memorial ser­v ices for recently deceased clergy. An unnamed master had apparently refused to take an oath on t­ hese points, which prompted the corporately minded masters to turn to Innocent, who they knew well and could count on for support. ­W hether or not the charges w ­ ere true, the real heart of the m ­ atter seems to have been the scholastic liberties discussed in previous chapters. First, teachers w ­ ere mostly ­free

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to determine their material, which meant that a fixed curriculum and a strict hierarchical difference between teacher and student w ­ ere not necessary. The scholars ­were also relatively ­free in their lifestyles, which set them apart from the clerics, especially ­t hose bound by a rule. Fi­nally, the fluidity of the philosophical schools allowed students to move about and change teachers if they wished.34 Other sources diagnosed the situation in more or less the same way. The constitutions promulgated in Paris around the same time by the papal legate Guala Bichieri denounced the insubordination of the masters and students as a form of clerical indiscipline that needed to be countered with threats of excommunication. The cardinal’s message was that the general ordinances governing the hairstyle, habits, and manners of the clergy also applied to members of the schools, and that they needed to be enforced. But the legate also recognized the masters and scholars as a special category that had to be handled with a light touch. The strict rules that applied to ordinary secular clerics would need to be moderated in their case.35 The ideal student-­teacher relationship that Innocent argued for appears stunningly conservative in light of the developments since the time of William of Champeaux. He describes how the masters should break bread “with the c­ hildren who ask for it” (parvulis petentibus) and should refresh their hungry souls with the food of God’s word. Th ­ ere should not be too many masters, he claims, since God created every­t hing according to number, weight, and mea­sure.36 Could he have been any more conservative? The old one-­sided relationship that had been abandoned in the rowdy days of the twelfth c­ entury was being revived by the pope as an ideal. Reform in this spirit was also undertaken in the university’s earliest surviving statutes, which w ­ ere issued in 1215 as a charter by the papal legate Robert of Courson along with the masters and students in Paris (universis magistris et scolaribus Parisiensibus).37 In this central document of Eu­ro­pean academic history, one finds a ­jumble of materials that do not accord well with its celebrated reputation. We find age limits and minimum periods of study alongside curricular requirements. Th ­ ere is also an index of unwelcome materials: Aristotle’s Metaphysics and natu­ral philosophy, and the works of David of Dinant, Amalric of Bena, and an obscure Spaniard named Mauritius. Common meals are required, but their extravagance is ­limited. A dress code is created, attendance at funeral ser­v ices is required, and the status of the property of Saint-­Germain-­des-­Prés is clarified. Then it goes off the rails: l­ egal jurisdiction over students in minor affairs is assigned to their masters; the



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practice of charging fees for teaching licenses is forbidden; master-­student confederations are ­limited to certain purposes; and the pro­cess of conferring doctorates in theology is addressed. Near the end, we find the famous requirement for students to attach themselves to a teacher: “No student in Paris may be without a fixed master.”38 Historians have found ­t hese statutes easiest to interpret when asking straightforward questions like w ­ hether the university “nations” r­ eally existed or not, or what role the popes played in bringing about the university.39 More recent readings have tried to understand their historical place better. According to Stephen Ferruolo, they emerged from a peaceful consensus between the papal legate and the Pa­ri­sian masters. Not actually dictated by the legate, they reflect the w ­ ill of at least a large portion of the teachers.40 It was the university itself that was trying to improve its status by introducing t­ hese reforms just a few years a­ fter its founding. Luca Bianchi has argued vehemently against this view. For him, the statutes w ­ ere the product of an alliance between papal agents and local theologians who sought to intervene in the practices of the Pa­ri­sian arts masters. The goal was to suppress reading of Aristotle’s logical works and the philosophical program itself.41 Still another view has been offered by Nathalie Gorochov, who recalls how Robert of Courson’s highly critical sermons in the months leading up to the issuing of the statutes had earned the ire of the French clergy. She suspects that the statutes w ­ ere primarily intended to smooth over this conflict and to win the support of the theologians for the Fourth Lateran Council planned for the upcoming November.42 From another a­ ngle, the statutes can be seen as an attempt to curb the academic entropy described in previous chapters. They freed students from the old requirements of the artes liberales and allowed them to try out new subjects and devote themselves to new works. By reducing their commitments to only a single master at a time, they also helped students to focus. Through standard curricula and textbooks, Robert and some masters took action against the excessive self-­referentiality in the philosophical enterprise. Overall, ­t hese reforms ­were conservative in character. By specifying a minimum age and a minimum length for study, by banning material, and by separating the obligatory subjects from the optional ones, they sought to regulate activities that might lead to uncontrolled growth. The unambiguous assignment of students to a single master who was their chief teacher and literal judge similarly discouraged them from switching between teachers based on fleeting interests and preferences. In this mea­sure, we can see

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the clearest expression of the conservative ideal, one not too far from the form and thinking of the older artes liberales schools. The dress code and the regulation of meals also pushed back against the gradual declericalization of the scholars. This concern explains why the round, black robe of the clerical habit was made compulsory, and why the lecture schedule was aligned with the local liturgical calendar. The regulation of feast days and memorials for the dead, as well as the right to issue further statutes, also impacted the university corporation. If ­every master had to attend ­every funeral ser­v ice, business would grind to a halt—­further statutes w ­ ere needed to address this prob­lem. . . . ​and Internal Freedom The h ­ ouse in which scientific knowledge resided might seem from the outside like a golden cage. But inside it, the enormous energy that had driven scholarly development in the twelfth ­century was channeled rather than curbed. ­Those who wielded knowledge benefited greatly from their privileged ­legal status: they possessed the right to welcome new members and the power to enact their own statutes and elect their own magistrates (autonomy and autocephaly). They enjoyed ­legal security and exemption from taxes when traveling to and from school, and their own ­legal jurisdiction, which protected them from the greed of the commune and its officials. Students also acquired teaching licenses upon graduation, some of which ­were considered universally valid for use at other universities (the famous ius ubique docendi).43 This weighty l­egal status, as cumbersome as it could be, enhanced the reputation of the universities. Rather than science itself, the university became the recognized authority to which p ­ eople appealed when they wanted their views to be deemed true and correct.44 Even an anonymous German dreamer who came up with a crude plan to save the world around 1500 claimed to know what “the eminent scholars in Paris had de­cided and vouched for” regarding a certain contentious question.45 Promotion and enhancement could be obtained only by following the se­lection pro­cess built into the fabric of the university. Curricular requirements and the exam system bound students closely to their masters, whose support in the graduation pro­cess was even more decisive than individual per­for­mance. In front of the examiners, the master would pre­sent the student, who swore that the prescribed texts had been sufficiently studied. The



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master would then testify that the student was indeed competent and had met certain obligations. The student still had to demonstrate proficiency with knowledge, of course, but to fail at this point was very unlikely. A l­ater satirical text describes how a student who had been turned down twice was fi­ nally waived through “for the sake of the university’s honor.” 46 The exams tested fama more than intellect and social standing more than scholarly competence. The reputation of one’s teacher also mattered h ­ ere as did the perseverance shown by the student throughout his course of study.47 The tension pre­sent within the privileged and self-­regulating academic establishment can be seen in thirteenth-­century Pa­ri­sian study guides, a genre that drew on traditional philosophical divisions to provide digestible bits of knowledge tailored for exams. Around twenty such works survive ­today. They show how the knowledge generated at the schools was transmitted and simplified in the pro­cess: rarely do we find in them much about thirteenth-­century innovations on the subjects of Aristotelian metaphysics, natu­ral philosophy (which discredited the quadrivium in the long run), and practical philosophy.48 Nevertheless, bold defenses of philosophy and philosophizing do sometimes rise to the surface through the thick layer of tradition. In them, we find an ideal of wisdom laden with ancient ideas prioritized over the Christian ideal represented by figures such as Augustine. The message conveyed by t­ hese texts is that a sui generis kind of philosophical wisdom exists that can be obtained only through the philosophical life. Marcel Bubert has recently shed light on how t­ hese texts, which at first glance seem to be ­little more than useful compendia, contain a power­f ul undercurrent of “enthusiasm for philosophy.” He has also shown how “an increasing number of arts masters ­were remaining in the arts faculty much longer than officially suggested” at the time when ­these study guides appeared. Roger Bacon stayed on for ten years, Herveus Natalis (Brito) for between ten and twenty, and Peter of Auvergne for around twenty-­five.49 ­There w ­ ere clearly some ­people who philosophized without clear aspirations of advancing to higher studies. Since science and the university w ­ ere closely intertwined by this point, it no longer makes sense to contrast them. The former had long proven to be one of the most flexible and forward-­t hinking sectors of society as a w ­ hole. This fluidity and mobility allowed it to adjust quickly to the new orga­ nizational channels of the university and to use them to its advantage. The academics trained ­t here from the mid-­t hirteenth ­century on came to identify with the now-­limited number of faculties and disciplines, and with the

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mostly static pro­cesses of graduation and examination. Since they w ­ ere part of a straightforward and comprehensible system, they could also assume a level of trust and re­spect in their contacts with the outside world. Before long, outsiders w ­ ere familiar with the university and based their perceptions of science on it. But despite the symbiotic relationship between researcher and university, the latter never actually acquired a total mono­poly on science. ­A fter 1300, changing conditions even enabled significant achievements outside of the university.50 Equating “science” with the university makes no more sense than equating “faith” with churches, “politics” with the state, or “law” with the judiciary. The tension between science’s expansive tendency and the conservatism of the university remained central to academic communication. Tension also manifested between the broader unity of the scientific ideal and the willfulness of the individual disciplines.51 Some of it was due to conflict between the truth-­oriented phi­los­o­phers and the utility-­minded jurists. More impor­tant though, the faculty model built disciplinary willfulness into the very fabric of the university. Disciplinary alignments (facultates) had existed for a long time, but they assumed their form at the universities during the mid-­t hirteenth ­century when masters w ­ ere forced to establish an acceptable range of courses and workable procedures for graduation.52 To regulate themselves, faculties chose one of their members to act as dean, and some even ­adopted their own seals.53 By allowing self-­governing faculties to specify their own rules and requirements, the wider university was able to disengage from subject-­specific issues and disputes. From the beginning, popes and prelates ­were alarmed by the mixing of disciplines and the entangling of perspectives and prob­lems at the universities. “Combine the schools and what you get is a monstrosity,” a Paris cathedral chancellor lamented. “A monster is the combination of dif­fer­ent natures in one body, so when several nations combine into a universitas what would result except a monster?” Again: “The four heads of this monster are the four faculties: logic, physics, canon law, and divine law.” What seemed to some a productive combination appeared to ­others as a frightening hybrid.54 Special precautions needed to be taken when one took the risk of applying philosophical knowledge to theological questions. In 1247, a papal legate warned that every­one should remain content with the time-­honored “bound­aries between sciences and subjects” established by “our ­fathers.”55 The vocabulary of mixing and contamination used by the popes is especially striking: artists should not “meddle” in the work of theologians, in ­t hings “that do not con-



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cern them.” Conversely, theologians should not “behave like phi­los­o­phers.” Inserting logical ele­ments into theology threatened to besmirch the “purity of study” with the “filth of error.” As the papal legate said in 1247, “mixing and blending” were forbidden.56 When Pope Honorius III banned Roman law teaching in Paris in 1219 to protect the local theologians from competition, he portrayed himself as a defender of disciplinary order.57 Citing the need to impose a clear and manageable order onto an increasingly complex world, he and his legates cast their power grab over science as an appeal to truth. But the harsh actions of ­these power­ful external forces against the allied disciplines would not go unanswered: with a single voice, the united masters of “the university” put forth heroic declarations of cohesion. Bologna, Oxford, and the Proliferation of the University Use of the term universitas to denote a group of students unified by region of origin appears slightly ­earlier in Bologna than in Paris. ­These ­were the academic “nations” (nationes) described e­ arlier. En­glish students expressed their solidarity quite early by erecting an altar to Thomas Becket following his murder in 1170. By the early years of the thirteenth ­century, the nationes had merged into two or three: a university of the citramontani for ­t hose from south of the Alps; a university for the ultramontani from beyond the Alps; and a disciplinary ­union for arts students.58 For outsiders such as Honorius III, the Bolognese students and not the teachers seemed to drive the universitas. The masters w ­ ere bound too closely to the commune: around 1190, they conceded to the commune’s demand for an oath that they would remain in the city. “I, Lothar, swear from now on not to establish a ­legal school in any other place than Bologna,” said one Cremonese professor to the city council.59 Teaching Roman law was so lucrative that masters found it easier to obtain favorable conditions (and possibly also citizenship rights too) by negotiating as individuals rather than as an assertive group. The city also tried to get the teachers to help them indirectly bind the students as well, but the plan backfired. The pressure exerted on the young scholars only welded the student universitates more tightly together.60 As a result, the Bolognese university acquired the reputation as a place where students ­were in charge. The university in Oxford is first mentioned around 1216 in a general formulation and ten years ­later with the ­actual word universitas. ­There, a “masters’ guild” prevailed.61 Between 1190 and 1209, the number of masters in

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Oxford was at least seventy and the number of students prob­ably in the hundreds.62 Evidence of group activity and cohesion can be seen in the deadly town-­and-­gown conflict of 1208/9 when the masters and students went on strike and or­ga­nized a mass exodus. Sources from this time speak of a “head of the Oxford schools” (magister scholarum Oxoniae). By 1230, the masters introduced statutes to regulate university life.63 The emerging Oxford University was s­ haped by its close connections to Paris and by its singular importance within the En­g lish realm. The small Thames town nevertheless produced its own unique collegiate constitution.64 The university chancellor, who had initially acted as an agent of episcopal authority much like his continental counter­parts, emancipated himself from the bishop of Lincoln and soon came to operate entirely within the school. Whereas the chancellor in Paris was in constant conflict with the local scholars, the Oxford chancellor became an ally in the fight to preserve academic freedom. In this way, the university exerted influence over the upper ranks of the En­glish clergy rather than being instrumentalized by them.65 That the universities of Paris, Bologna, and Oxford emerged without the planning hand of a founder means that their development did not follow a clear causal chain.66 The university model (a sworn u ­ nion of teachers, students, or both) spread throughout Eu­rope, primarily in waves of exodus or foundation.67 The former occurred when masters and students left an existing university to start a new one, such as during the aforementioned Oxford conflict of 1208/9. The vio­lence t­ here had begun when a student killed a local ­woman and afterward fled the city. In response, community officials with the backing of the king arrested and hanged three of his ­house­mates. The move prompted a large number of masters and students to leave the city in protest, and some of them settled in a small town in the diocese of Ely to continue their lessons ­there. This town, Cambridge, became the home of ­England’s second university.68 Similar events occurred in several other places. When conflict broke out between the students and citizens in Bologna in 1222, many students relocated to Padua and started a new university ­t here.69 Six years ­later, the citizens of Vercelli sent secret messengers to Padua to entice them away with promises of excellent study conditions in their own city. The student leaders cut a deal and sent enough students to occupy five hundred ­houses in Vercelli for a contracted term of at least eight years.70 Back in Paris, a deadly conflict also led to a student exodus from 1229 to 1231, which resulted in new universities taking root in Orléans and Angers.71



“We, the University” 217

The more common story of university establishment was that they ­were founded and endowed by individuals (mostly princes or other sovereigns) or groups (usually city councils). The found­ers provided the initial framework and start-up funding for scholars to establish themselves locally.72 Toulouse acquired its early university in 1229 through the initiative of its lord, Count Raymond VII, with the cooperation of King Louis IX of France and Pope Gregory IX.73 Urban communes also pursued such initiatives. The term “city university” is sometimes used in Italy, and in the German-­speaking lands the city councils of Cologne (1388/89), Erfurt (1392), and Basel (1460) each spearheaded their own university foundations.74 ­These initiatives tended to irritate neighboring and rival princes: the foundation of a university in Prague in 1348 was quickly copied in Kraków, Vienna, and Pécs, although with less success at first.75 Experienced professors from other universities played a key role in t­ hese foundations. They knew how to build a new university, how to manage academic senates and faculty assemblies, and how to balance the competing self-­ images of the dif­fer­ent faculties. The rise of founded and endowed universities neither fundamentally altered the character of the university nor subjected it to the whims of rulers and city governments.76 The rules forced on ­these universities did ­little to stop their masters and students from forming f­ ree u ­ nions and claiming a central role in academic administration. U ­ nder normal circumstances, secular and spiritual lords usually did not show much interest in the collegiate program. In 1471, the elector of Saxony spent eight times as much money on his wine cellar as he did on the university in Leipzig.77 Only in times of crisis, like during the Reformation, did the situation change. When princes did occasionally try to gain po­liti­cal benefit from the universities, it mattered ­little how the institution had initially come into being. Although not founded by the king, the university in Paris (often referred to as the Sorbonne ­after one of its colleges) suffered greatly during the G ­ reat Schism (1378–1417) from the domineering but ultimately unsuccessful intervention of the privy council.78 State institutions w ­ ere able to control neither the founded universities nor the wild ­children in Bologna and Paris. It is worth surveying the expansion of the universities during several dif­ fer­ent periods.79 During their first ­century up to 1300, new institutions appeared mainly in northern Italy at places such as Vicenza, Reggio Emilia, Arezzo, and Siena. Significant higher study also occurred at the Roman curia and in Salerno and Naples, but since sworn ­unions have not been identified

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at t­ hese places, it is more accurate to refer to them as schools of higher education than as true universities (the common designation of Naples as a “state university” is misleading). In France, Orléans became famous for the training of l­awyers. The ban on Roman law teaching in Paris in 1219 benefited the university t­ here to such a degree that it was sometimes called Paris’s law faculty. Toulouse and Angers ­were also significant centers of study, as we have already seen. Beyond the Pyrenees, the early foundations at Salamanca and ­later at Valladolid and Lisbon also r­ ose to prominence. In this early phase, universities w ­ ere mainly concentrated at the key early centers of Bologna, Paris, and Oxford (including their offshoots at Padua, Orléans, and Cambridge), and in the Mediterranean world. Before the Reformation, new universities never managed to match t­ hese early centers in terms of student draw and academic eminence. Foundations before the outbreak of the schism in 1378 had a particularly hard time. Even in the Prague of Charles IV in the de­cades a­ fter 1348, it is difficult to get a clear sense of the academic situation. The university seems to have crumbled into two pieces, which ­were each or­ga­nized very differently.80 The schools in Kraków, Pécs, and Vienna seem to have stagnated, with the latter acting more as an appendage of the school at St. Stephen’s cathedral than as an in­de­pen­ dent institution.81 The main cause of this unsatisfactory situation was the lack of qualified masters in the three “upper” faculties of medicine, law, and theology. Also unhelpful was the policy of the popes to try to control the teaching of theology by concentrating it in Paris. Before 1378, papal privileges often denied new foundations the right to form a theology faculty.82 With the outbreak of the schism, however, the existence of two (and at times three) popes made this policy impossible to sustain, which provided impetus for a new wave of foundations. By leveraging the popes against each other, found­ers ­were able to secure approval for full universities with all four faculties. Pope Urban VI in Rome realized that refusing a theology faculty to a petitioner might drive them into the arms of his Avignonese rival. Even as the Paris protection racket was falling apart, the French king was putting massive pressure on the professors ­there to support the Avignon pope. The situation in Paris quickly became dicey, especially for German teachers. Many returned home to take up positions at new and revitalized institutions in Heidelberg, Cologne, Erfurt, and Vienna (which was more successful a­ fter 1384). On the eve of the Reformation, ­t here ­were seventeen universities in Germany (serving an estimated 250,000 students including foreigners) and a sim-



“We, the University” 219

ilar number in France.83 In Spain and Portugal, we know of eleven, and in the British Isles five (including St. Andrews, Glasgow, and Aberdeen). The only medieval Scandinavian university was founded in Copenhagen in 1479. ­These universities (many of which ­were small and provincial) formed a tight network. Students no longer had to expose themselves to foreign experiences. They could travel to Erfurt rather than Pavia, to Prague rather than Orléans. Many who could afford it still went to the old centers though, and ambitious students of modest means would study law at home and then travel to northern Italy for graduation (still quite costly). During a quarrel between a doctor and an apothecary in Frankfurt in the early sixteenth ­century, the latter mocked the former for coming back as a “doctor of medicine” ­a fter spending only two months south of the Alps.84 Excellence Initiatives The Eu­ro­pean academic landscape was traversed by young, studious, and career-­driven men. The best vantage point from which to survey this geography was at the papal curia in Rome, where delegates from the individual universities w ­ ere received, their wishes heard, their requests for benefices examined, and their requested letters of privilege issued (for a stately fee of course).85 Elsewhere, too, curious observers appear, such as the author of a Cologne chronicle from 1499. Writing in the first person, this anonymous author attempted to integrate the history of his city into the older model of universal history. During his lifetime, he wrote, ­people said that Paris was the best school for the liberal arts and for natu­ral philosophy. The best school of theology, however, was (surprise, surprise) in Cologne, while “Bologna in Lombardy” was “the highest and best school for divine and secular law.” For medicine, Pavia was definitely the place to go. For astronomy, the science of the stars, Kraków in Poland was number one.86 It is doubtful that the scholars on the ­Middle Rhine w ­ ere r­ eally the crème de la crème of Eu­rope’s theologians—­this Cologne resident was surely expressing local pride. More impor­tant for us is the author’s ecumenical approach to the Eu­ro­pean academic landscape. Rather than dividing the continent up into empires and lordships, he treats Latin Chris­tian­ity as a single, internally differentiated entity. Specialized schools add up to an imaginary ­whole encompassing the wealth of accumulated knowledge. This understanding of the educational world as polycentric and functionally fragmented was surely influenced by the model of competition between empires and princes.

220 Chapter 10

Somewhat surprisingly, it would endure throughout the era of religious confessionalization and only gradually disappeared during the eigh­teenth ­century. Despite this apparent unity, competition between universities flourished. Toulouse and Orléans set themselves up as rivals of Paris. Padua competed with Bologna, and so did smaller regional colleges in the late ­Middle Ages. The ­people of Freiburg im Breisgau envied the better-­situated Basel while the ­people of Valence did the same with Grenoble. Up to the French Revolution, ­t hese last two engaged in what has been described as a “war of ­brothers.”87 As the universities battled over reputation and admissions, some realized that specializing in certain disciplines and playing up their differences could make them seem more attractive. Toulouse added an entire faculty of grammar to its arts faculty since the latter had trou­ble keeping up with Paris. ­Others came up with their own unique selling points.88 In the m ­ iddle of the fifteenth c­ entury, Grenoble realized that the inferior upstarts in Valence ­were trying to raise the profile of their Roman law faculty, so they launched a preemptive strike. Seeking out a famous law professor, ideally an Italian, they found their champion in the Piedmontese jurist Gribaldi de Moffa. This new hire only managed to heighten tensions with Valence.89 Soon a­ fter establishing the university in Toulouse, the found­ers sent out a letter of invitation directed mainly at the students and masters in Paris. ­Because of another town-­and-­gown conflict ­t here, it was hoped that some of them might be willing to travel south. The advertisement mentioned the ban on the study of natu­ral philosophy in Paris. ­Those who wished to study nature’s bosom, it promised, would find in Toulouse all the books that ­were banned on the Seine. Other reasons to leave ­were listed too: “What then ­will you lack? Scholastic liberty? By no means—­since you ­will be tied to no one’s apron strings, you ­will enjoy your own liberty. Or do you fear the malice of the raging mob or the tyranny of an injurious prince? Fear not, since the liberality of the count of Toulouse affords sufficient security both to our salaries and our servants coming to Toulouse and returning home.” 90 The scholars in Toulouse ­were not the only ones to view the university in Paris as both a m ­ other institution and a rival. In 1287, the bishop of Amiens wrote to a colleague about disputations he had witnessed in Paris and in Orléans. He came away with the impression that the scholars on the Loire knew more of the law and ­were on average more intelligent than t­ hose on the Seine.91 It made sense to observe the strengths and weaknesses of academic competitors and to use them to one’s advantage. ­Because the bigger, older uni-



“We, the University” 221

versities found it harder to implement reforms and make improvements, second-­tier institutions could sometimes overtake them by taking shortcuts. The Bolognese jurists, it was said, focused so intensely on established glosses and “their” ­great Accursius that they dedicated hardly any attention to the development of practice-­oriented training. The younger universities in Perugia, Pavia, Pisa, and Siena surpassed them in this re­spect. Meanwhile, the law faculties in Modena and Padua offered disputations on con­temporary statutory law. Even before the age of industrial espionage, laggards sometimes found it easier than pioneers.92 Some of the universities established in the German-­speaking lands a­ fter the outbreak of the ­Great Schism de­cided to establish separate faculties of canon law and Roman law in order to enhance their juristic profile. Now ­there ­were universities with five faculties! This strategy had some success in Cologne and Leuven.93 The university found­ers in Basel ­were even more ambitious: they seriously considered setting up a student-­led institution like in Bologna, which would have been unusual north of the Alps. Students would have formed and guided the universitas while the teachers would have been hired on contractually. Although they came close to creating something special, they ultimately went with the safer option.94 Professors at the universities discussed ­t hese strategies passionately and contentiously.95 It was easy for science to examine itself in the framework of the university since fields, issues, key concepts, and teaching materials ­were protected by social organ­izations (faculties, university nations, and officers) and armed with institutional structures (curricula, compulsory lectures, graduation, and the ius ubique docendi). The differences between universities meant that philosophizing was no longer the same in Erfurt as it was in Cologne.96 And no longer did the social pro­cesses begun at the e­ arlier schools depend on individual, isolated student-­teacher communities. The university was a permanent and pervasive institution, and outsiders knew where to turn when they needed access to its knowledge. Theology may have been indifferent to the trial of the Knights Templar, but the Theology Faculty of the Sorbonne was not. Science could not issue expert opinions, but the Law Faculty in Freiburg was up to the task.97

​Epilogue

“In the beginning w ­ ere the towns.” By starting his treatment of Intellectuals in the M ­ iddle Ages with this commitment to a materialistic view of history, Jacques Le Goff prob­ably hoped to annoy his conservative guild mates. But he also meant it seriously.1 For him, the university, the professor, the scholar, and the intellectual w ­ ere products of an urban culture from the outset. Still ­today, this urban culture is often contrasted with the agrarian, feudal, and rural character of a supposed previous state of civilization in which intellectual life was more at home in the monasteries than in the universities.2 Superficial historical observation seems to confirm this impression: no university in Eu­rope was ever founded on a green pasture. We can imagine how the early scholars and masters rented urban housing to live and teach, how they secured food at the city market, how they debated their way through the streets of Paris, Bologna, Salamanca, and Aberdeen, and how they eavesdropped on the sounds coming from their neighbors’ ­houses. P ­ eople like Jacques de Vitry perceived the academic world primarily through their ears. But we have strayed far from Le Goff’s picture in our quest for the origins of a willful and self-­referential science. Nothing for us is “at the beginning,” at least not in the basic sense. We have been concerned more with the transformations of a centuries-­old educational world that deserved closer examination. We have seen transformations in thinking, in the form of the social groups where thinking occurred, and in the emotional repertoires they employed. This perspective has made it easier to understand how the externally referential higher knowledge of the last third of the eleventh c­ entury provided the breeding ground for a new sphere of self-­referential science that distanced itself from the artes liberales and found its home in the practice of philosophizing. This development was not a one-­way street. A ­ fter 1200, the young universities once again assigned the seven liberal arts a prominent position. Along the way, we w ­ ere able to identify several distinct discourses that sometimes connected to each other as they weighed their values of cor-

Epilogue 223

rectness and truth, utility and experience, and the common good. Some of the changes ­here ­were not at all slow and subtle, occurring so rapidly that contemporaries registered them as unpre­ce­dented innovations. As we saw in Chapter 2, ­t hese changes ­were initiated and guided by certain aspects of the early medieval monastic and cathedral schools. ­Because of the ideal of perfectly transmitted knowledge, which was not at all conducive to flexibility and change, these scholars had to carry out their intellectual practices in small and not entirely harmonious group forms. As t­hese group forms developed momentum, they produced behavioral norms and a repertoire of emotional expressions to promote stability. In retrospect, it is fortunate that ­these mea­sures ­were inadequate. The primary obstacle to their social harmony was that attentive students ­were inspired by their textbooks to carefully observe their own intellectual development and emotional states, and to interpret both. In this way, certain emotions such as reverence, love, friendship, jealousy, competition, and rivalry over status positions came to infuse the culture of the schools. Th ­ ese emotions, in turn, impacted the ­handling of the subject ­matter by guiding interactions between teachers and students. The “intimate” relationships they developed ushered in key transformations in the early history of Eu­ro­pean science. The academic ­f uture belonged to intense and highly competitive scholarly engagement. Observant contemporaries found that their strug­gles over the truth could be productive only if healthy disrespect for magisterial authority was maintained. Slowly, students and masters came to understand that their quest for knowledge was intrinsically meaningful and that it was ideally set into motion in the context of a school-­adjacent form, the vita communis. But as Abelard’s students learned, even when they tried their hardest, absolute truth eluded ­t hose who sought it. Once a prob­lem was solved, it led to new questions, new formulations, and new approaches. The central chapters allowed us to catch a glimpse at how the triad of knowledge structures, group forms, and emotions could fluctuate widely. Chapter 3 focused on the ­free schools of entrepreneurial masters that had existed for a while but assumed new meaning ­because of the tensions and contradictions that emanated from the so-­called Gregorian reform movement beginning in the mid-­eleventh ­century. One unintended consequence of church reform was the emergence of a utopian desire to live in groups modeled on the ­simple, self-­defined communities of early Christians. From about 1070 on, life in the scholae borrowed from ­these utopian visions, a phenomenon that distinguishes early Eu­ro­pean science from previous academic innovations.

224 Epilogue

Impor­tant to this vision was the ideal of new eremitism, of orienting oneself ­toward a model master and cultivating a communal life alongside like-­ minded ­people while avoiding the alienating aspects of competing lifestyles at monasteries and collegiate churches. One new school proj­ect that put this ideal into practice was the scholarly hermitage established by William of Champeaux outside Paris around 1111. Our clearest insight into the utopian and comprehensive nature of this scientific life plan was provided by Abelard’s most ambitious academic venture, the settlement that he founded on the banks of the Ardusson. In this context, the knowledge cultivated by ­t hese socially constructed groups was able to radically redefine itself. As it turned out, the knowledge itself was less of a social construct than ­were the group forms that enabled and promoted it. For almost a hundred years before 1100, p ­ eople had studied the logical texts Boethius had saved for Latin Eu­rope. But as Chapter 4 showed, new and dif­fer­ent ways of thinking about them began to emerge in the 1070s. Out of ­t hese new approaches developed the first scientific princi­ples: a greater flexibility and self-­referentiality that fueled scholarly discourse about ­human intellectual capability; a heightened awareness of disciplinary bounds born out of this new kind of thinking; a new notion of temporality that liberated new ideas from the shackles of time-­honored tradition; and a new understanding of how true and false statements functioned in scholastic debate. ­These epistemic innovations ­were each a product of group communication rather than individual thinking and prob­ably would not have emerged at all if not for the intimacy of scholastic interaction and its combination of closeness and competition. Peter Abelard, who was socialized into this new science and was strongly inclined to articulate his own opinions, provides better insight into this world than all the anonymous teachers of the previous two generations combined. He also had a catalyzing effect on the new science by introducing to the schools new concepts of “author,” “individual work,” and “oeuvre.” The fifth and sixth chapters, which covered the transformation of the scholastic group culture, occupy the center of our narrative. We used Abelard’s scholarly work and his autobiographical account to reconstruct the altered emotional balance at the scholae. We also saw how the development of a scientific epistemology redefined “truth” as something that can be approached only through disputing. As philosophizing became more of a

Epilogue 225

practice and a way of life rather than the straightforward acquisition of venerable knowledge, it assumed a form that enabled teachers, students, and their material to influence each other. We saw how this insight led Peter to a cautious, tentative understanding of the capabilities and limits of scientific inquiry. Scholars now had to take seriously the possibility of authoritative error and acknowledge that the defiance of the younger generation played an essential role in the scholarly pro­cess of trying to understand the true or at least the probable. In this context, masters and students constantly revised their understanding of the material. For con­temporary critics such as Walter of Mortagne and William of Saint-­Thierry (not to mention Bernard, the “secret pope”), this activity seemed to reveal insolent arrogance. A fear grew among them that the schola would become not just a source of ­f uture error but also a self-­perpetuating medium for the dissemination of its own products. Their concerns w ­ ere not entirely unfounded. The next generation of leaders who took charge in the second half of the twelfth c­ entury, unlike their pre­de­ces­sors, began to engage closely with the schools and their activities. Scholasticism ceased to be a curiosity, and as a science, it became a force to be reckoned with in the world. Science fi­nally set aside the ideal of eremitic detachment from the world in ­favor of residing in the cities during this time, as we learned in Chapter 7. Scholars now envisioned philosophical life and scientific thinking as something that occurred among ­people rather than apart from them. The scholastic environment had become a diverse and restless place, and whoever visited it found a veritable marketplace of ideas full of dif­fer­ent positions, guiding questions, concentrations, and preferences. We saw how moralists and satirists judged the new situation, and how the reservations of some German observers about the schools changed over time. For conservative men such as Gerhoh of Reichersberg who ­were concerned about dialectical knowledge, the influence of the new science in key centers of power was especially troubling. The knowledge cosmos of the second half of the ­century was at once more colorful and more confusing than before. The goal of the Chapter 8 was to isolate dif­fer­ent forms of knowledge and assign them to three dif­fer­ent discourses. School and abbey each ­shaped their own discourse and—­prob­ably ­because their lifestyles and mentalities w ­ ere so similar—­strug­gled to demonstratively demarcate themselves from each other. Accusations of arrogance (against the scholars) as well as naïveté and superficiality (against the monks),

226 Epilogue

while meant to emphasize points of contrast, ended up revealing considerable overlap between the two groups in terms of their habitus. A third, humanistic discourse emerged at the juncture between academic and practical activity. It also took its guiding values and ideas about education from the ancient pagan tradition. Members of this discourse valued the community-­building practice of friendship, of office and responsibility, and their ­careers. They also participated in transregional networks of letter writers who used this medium to affirm their shared values. The humanists especially valued prudence, experience, and the common good. The early “expert culture” in Eu­rope was shown to be a product of both the humanistic and scholastic discourses. From then on, Eu­ro­pe­ans adjusted to the idea that forms of knowledge could differ and that one might need to visit the court, the church, the city, or educational institutions to find the “correct” form that they needed. Jurists tackled head-on the challenge of making learned knowledge useful. Unlike the phi­los­o­phers, their schools taught a science designed for direct communication with their environment and, even more so, for exchange with legislative entities and ­legal enforcers. From the example of the jurists, Eu­ro­pe­ans learned that an academic field could be effective if allowed the necessary space to cultivate its own patterns of thinking and if it treated and understood its theoretical work as a form of practical action. “Science” began to interact with other areas of society, which led to the professionalization of adjacent activities. Prince, pope, podestà, and seigneurie began to take notice and to adjust. But this attention did not make l­ egal experts popu­lar. Criticism of jurists and ­lawyers, as we saw, is as old as jurisprudence itself. The ensemble of sciences had to balance competing values, perspectives, and practices from the mid-­twelfth c­ entury on. Thus, their unification at the university around 1200 requires an explanation that accounts for ­t hese obstacles. The scholae of the vari­ous subjects already had something in common in terms of their group structure and form. But it was never guaranteed that the phi­los­o­phers would unite ­under the same roof with the utility-­ minded jurists, with the theologians concerned with divine revelation, and with the medical doctors. The emergence of the university ­u nder ­t hese circumstances was not a foregone conclusion or even a likely one. Since it valued both truth and utility, masters and students had to constantly adjust to the expectations and requirements of both. And since science now had to reckon with the internal heterogeneity of the universities, it could no longer serve as an all-­

Epilogue 227

encompassing way of life. Competition and interaction between diametrically opposed core values, which Francis Bacon later called “twin goals,” became a norm at the university: truth contended with utility, theory with practice, knowledge with power, autonomy with duty, and the urge to understand ­causes with the desire to make a real difference in the world.3 The constant interaction between t­ hese values was what made higher-­level Eu­ro­pean education so special. For university students, who had to position themselves within competing forces according to their inclinations and ambitions, e­ very decision in ­favor of one discipline over another, or to pursue “pure” rather than “applied” science, carried with it the potential of risk and reward. Only by replacing the older academic milieu that had ­shaped the history of Eu­ro­pean science for almost a c­ entury and a half, and only by merging t­ hings that most p ­ eople did not think belonged together, did the university manage to become so enduring.

ABBR EVIATIONS

AHLett. Abelard and Heloise, The Letter Collection of Peter Abelard and Heloise, ed. David Luscombe and Betty Radice (Oxford: Clarendon, 2013). CCCM

Corpus Christianorum, Continuatio Mediaevalis

CCSL

Corpus Christianorum, Series Latina

CSEL

Corpus Scriptorum Ecclesiasticorum Latinorum

CSMLT

Cambridge Studies in Medieval Life and Thought

EHR

En­glish Historical Review

ESMAR

Education and Society in the M ­ iddle Ages and Re­nais­sance

FStGA Ausgewählte Quellen zur deutschen Geschichte des Mittelalters—­Freiherr vom Stein-­Gedächtnisausgabe HBPM

Herders Bibliothek der Philosophie des Mittelalters

Hist. cal.

Abelard, Historia calamitatum (in AHLett.)

HZ

Historische Zeitschrift

JMH

Journal of Medieval History

LMA

Lexikon des Mittelalters

230 Abbreviations

MGH

Monumenta Germaniae Historica

MGH BdK

Die Briefe der deutschen Kaiserzeit

MGH DD

Die Urkunden der deutschen Könige und Kaiser

MGH Epp. sel. Epistolae selectae MGH LdL

Libelli de lite

MGH QQ zur Geistesgesch. Quellen zur Geistesgeschichte des Mittelalters MGH SS

Scriptores (in Folio)

MGH SS N.S. Scriptores, Nova Series MGH SS rer. Germ. Scriptores rerum Germanicarum in usum scholarum separatim editi MGH Staatsschriften Staatsschriften des späteren Mittelalters PHS

Pariser historische Studien

PIMS

Pontifical Institute of Medieval Studies

PL

Migne, Patrologia Latina

SC

Sources chrétiennes

STW

Suhrkamp-­Taschenbuch Wissenschaft

VGUW Veröffentlichungen der Gesellschaft für Universitäts-­ und Wissenschaftsgeschichte

Abbreviations 231

VMPIG Veröffentlichungen des Max-­Planck-­Instituts für Geschichte VuF Vorträge und Forschungen WGW

Wissenskultur und gesellschaftlicher Wandel

ZRG KA Zeitschrift der Savigny-­Stiftung für Rechtsgeschichte, kanonistische Abteilung ZRG RA Zeitschrift der Savigny-­Stiftung für Rechtsgeschichte, romanistische Abteilung

NOTES

Note on the En­glish Translation 1. See the essays in Otto Gerhard Oexle, Die Wirklichkeit und das Wissen: Mittelalterfor­ schung, Historische Kulturwissenschaft, Geschichte und Theorie der historischen Erkenntnis, ed. Andrea von Hülsen-­Esch, Bernhard Jussen, and Frank Rexroth (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2011), especially numbers 10–15. See also Christina Lutter, “Social Groups, Personal Relations, and the Making of Communities in Medieval vita monastica,” in Making Sense as a Cultural Practice: Historical Perspectives, ed. Jörg Rogge (Bielefeld: Transcript, 2013), 45–61; Rogers Brubaker, “Ethnicity Without Groups,” Archives of Eu­ro­pean Sociology 43 (2002), 163–89. 2. Thomas Lindenberger, “Eigen-­Sinn, Domination and No Re­sis­tance,” https://­zeitges​ chichte​ -­d igital​ .­d e​ /­d oks​ /­f rontdoor​ /­d eliver​ /­i ndex​ /­d ocId​ /­595​ /­f ile​ /­d ocupedia ​ _ ­l indenberger​ _­eigensinn​_­v1​_­de​_­2014​.­pdf (accessed August 8, 2022). 3. Niklas Luhmann, Introduction to Systems Theory, ed. Dirk Baecker, trans. Peter Gilgen (Cambridge: Polity Press, 2013).

Preface 1. The idea of academic “willfulness” (Eigensinn) used throughout the book draws on the work of Alf Lüdtke on the appropriation of rituals, institutions, and practices by the “lower” classes. Our scholars similarly drew terms and ideas from the spheres of religion and politics while insisting on their own understandings and definitions. 2. Robert King Merton, “Science and Demo­cratic Social Structure (1942),” in Robert King Merton, Social Theory and Social Structure, rev. ed. (New York: F ­ ree Press, 1968), 604–15, p. 614. 3. Herbert Altrichter, Waltraud Kannonier-­Finster, and Meinrad Ziegler, “Das Theorie-­ Praxis-­Verhältnis in den Sozialwissenschaften,” in Verwertbarkeit: Ein Qualitätskriterium (erziehungs-)wissenschaftlichen Wissens?, ed. Helmut Heid (Wiesbaden: Springer, 2005), 119–42, p. 137 especially. 4. Rainer Schnell, Paul Bernhard Hill, and Elke Esser, Methoden der empirischen Sozialforschung, 8th ed. (Munich: Oldenbourg, 2008), 390–93 on “direct,” “indirect,” and “(non-)participatory” observation; similarly, Mario von Cranach and Hans-­Georg Frenz, “Systematische Beobachtung,” in Handbuch der Psychologie, Bd. 7: Sozialpsychologie, Teilband 1: Theorien und Methoden, ed. Kurt Gottschaldt, Philip Lersch, et al., 2nd ed. (Göttingen: Verlag für Psychologie, 1975), 269–330, p. 270 on “participatory” observation; in addition, Gerd Spittler, “Teilnehmende Beobachtung als Dichte Teilnahme,” Zeitschrift für Ethnologie 126 (2001), 1–25 and Brigitta Hauser-­Schäublin, “Teilnehmende Beobachtung,” in Methoden und Techniken der Feldforschung, ed. Bettina Beer (Berlin: Reimer, 2003), 33–54, pp. 37–41 especially, on “participatory” observation and “thick” participation. 5. Jürgen Habermas, Knowledge and H ­ uman Interests, trans. Jeremy J. Shapiro (Cambridge: Polity Press, 1987), 370.

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Notes to Pages 1–2

6. The global-­historical approach to our subject, which is currently being tested, also uses controlled anachronism to gain new understanding. Influenced by modern globalization, it seeks out similarity and difference, mutual influence, and cases of compartmentalization in knowledge. Charles S. F. Burnett, “The Transmission of Science and Philosophy,” in The Cambridge World History, vol. 5: Expanding Webs of Exchange and Conflicts, 500 CE–1500 CE, ed. Benjamin  Z. Kedar and Merry  E. Wiesner-­Hanks (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2015), 339–58; Linda Walton, “Educational Institutions,” in Kedar and Wiesner-­Hanks, eds., Cambridge World History, 116–44. 7. Nicole Loraux, “Éloge de l’anachronisme en histoire,” Le Genre humain 27 (1993), 23–39; compare to Frédérique Fleck, “Les historiens et l’anachronisme,” Fa­bula, la recherche en littérature, last modified November  4, 2012, http://­w ww​.­fa­bula​.­org ​/­atelier​.­php​?­Anachronisme​_­et​ _­historiographie; Peter von Moos, “Das Öffentliche und das Private im Mittelalter: Für einen kontrollierten Anachronismus,” in Das Öffentliche und Private in der Vormoderne, ed. Gert Melville and Peter von Moos (Cologne: Böhlau, 1998), 3–83, p. 128f.

Chapter 1 1. Karin Knorr-­Cetina, Die Fabrikation von Erkenntnis: Zur Anthropologie der Naturwissenschaft, 4th ed., STW 959 (Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, 2016); Bruno Latour, Steve Woolgar, and Jonas Salk, Laboratory Life: The Construction of Scientific Facts, 2nd ed. (Prince­ton, N.J.: Prince­ton University Press, 1986); Steven Shapin, A Social History of Truth: Civility and Science in Seventeenth-­Century ­England (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1994). 2. Friedrich Wilhelm Graf, “­Saddle Period,” in Religion Past and Pre­sent. Consulted online on 10 November 2022. http://­d x​.­doi​.­org​/­10​.­1163​/­1877​-­5888​_­rpp​_ ­SIM​_­025223. 3. The lit­er­a­ture is boundless. For an orientation, see the annotated bibliography up to the early 1990s in Steven Shapin, The Scientific Revolution (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1996), 167–211. Consider also Shapin’s first sentence (p. 1): “­There was no such ­thing as the Scientific Revolution, and this is a book about it.” On pure teaching, see Hugh F. Kearney, Origins of the Scientific Revolution (London: Longmans, 1964). Other academic textbooks from the 1990s and 2000s that, owing to their genre, try to stick to the narrative can be found in Katharine Park and Lorraine Daston, “Introduction: The Age of the New,” in The Cambridge History of Science, vol. 3: Early Modern Science, ed. Katharine Park and Lorraine Daston (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2008), 1–17, p. 15, n. 24. On the reservations expressed since the early 1990s and a reason to eschew them, see pp. 12–15 of the same work. Both proponents and critics of the concept are discussed in Margaret J. Osler, Rethinking the Scientific Revolution (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000). See also Marian Füssel, “Auf dem Weg zur Wissensgesellschaft: Neue Forschungen zur Kultur des Wissens in der Frühen Neuzeit,” Zeitschrift für Historische Forschung 34 (2007), 273–89. 4. On mathematization, see Kearney, Origins, XI. On the renewal of state theory, see Rudolf Vierhaus, Staaten und Stände: Vom Westfälischen bis zum Hubertusburger Frieden 1648–1763 (Frankfurt am Main: Propyläen, 1984), 141. On the decline of canon law and ecclesiastical influence along with the laicization of the universities, see Hugh F. Kearney, Scholars and Gentlemen: Universities and Society in Pre-­Industrial Britain 1500–1700 (London: Faber, 1970). 5. Alexandre Koyré, From the Closed World to the Infinite Universe (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1957), vii; Herbert Butterfield, The Origins of Modern Science, 1300–1800 (New York: Macmillan, 1957), viii. 6. Mario Biagioli, Galileo, Courtier: The Practice of Science in the Culture of Absolutism (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1993), 12. 7. Peter Burke, A Social History of Knowledge: From Gutenberg to Diderot (Cambridge: Polity Press, 2000). 8. Richard van Dülmen and Sina Rauschenbach, eds., Macht des Wissens: Die Entstehung der modernen Wissensgesellschaft (Cologne: Böhlau, 2004).



Notes to Pages 2–5

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9. Richard van Dülmen and Sina Rauschenbach, “Einleitung,” in Macht des Wissens, ed. Dülmen and Rauschenbach, 1–12, p. 1. 10. Hans-­Jürgen Goertz, “Von der Kleriker-­zur Laienkultur: Glaube und Wissen in der Reformationszeit,” in Macht des Wissens, ed. Dülmen and Rauschenbach, 39–64, p. 42. 11. Goertz, “Kleriker,” 44. The section begins with the heading: “Von der Priester-­zur Laienkultur.” 12. Dülmen and Rauschenbach, “Einleitung,” 1. 13. Richard van Dülmen, Theater des Schreckens: Gerichtspraxis und Strafrituale in der frühen Neuzeit, 4th ed. (Munich: C. H. Beck, 1995). 14. The lectures held by Mittelstraß on this subject became widely known through three volumes: Jürgen Mittelstraß, Der Flug der Eule: Von der Vernunft der Wissenschaft und der Aufgabe der Philosophie (Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, 1989); Jürgen Mittelstraß, Leonardo-­Welt: Über Wissenschaft, Forschung und Verantwortung (Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, 1992); Jürgen Mittelstraß, Die Häuser des Wissens: Wissenschaftstheoretische Studien (Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, 1998). 15. Mittelstraß, Leonardo-­Welt, 14, 105ff. 16. Mittelstraß, Leonardo-­Welt, 15 (emphasis Mittelstraß). 17. Burckhardt treated the M ­ iddle Ages as the evolutionary precursor, discounting its ­later phase in which the “civilization of the Re­nais­s ance” emerged. He depicted the period more positively in his ­earlier work and again ­a fter 1860 when he was no longer seeking to draw a contrast and wanted to express weariness with pre­s ent culture. He used the M ­ iddle Ages, therefore, as a discursive tool to orient his work. An early look at his changing views can be found in Rudolf Stadelmann, “Jacob Burckhardt und das Mittelalter,” HZ 142 (1930), 457–515. 18. Niklas Luhmann, “The Modernity of Science,” trans. Kerstin Behnke, New German Critique 61 (1994), 9–23, p. 10f. 19. On the reconstruction of the “enlightened” picture of the ­Middle Ages, especially in the work of Otto Gerhard Oexle, see Frank Rexroth, “Das Mittelalter und die Moderne in den Meistererzählungen der historischen Wissenschaften,” Zeitschrift für Literaturwissenschaft und Linguistik 38 (2008), 12–31; Frank Rexroth, “Die scholastische Wissenschaft in den Meistererzählungen der europäischen Geschichte,” in Die Aktualität der Vormoderne: Epochenentwürfe zwischen Alterität und Kontinuität, ed. Klaus Ridder and Steffen Patzold (Berlin: Akademie, 2013), 111–34. The quote comes from Voltaire and was recorded multiple times. On his view of the ­Middle Ages, see Lucie Varga, Das Schlagwort vom “finsteren Mittelalter” (Baden: Rohrer, 1932), 123–29 (quote at 126). 20. Pierre Duhem, Le système du monde: Histoire des doctrines cosmologiques de Platon à Copernic, vol. 7.5: La physique Parisienne au XIVe siècle (Paris: Hermann, 1956), 3: “Dès le début du XIVe siècle, le grandiose édifice de la Physique péripatéticienne était condamné à la destruction; la foi chrétienne en avait sapé tous les principes essentiels; la science d’observation ou, du moins, la seule science d’observation qui fût alors quelque peu développée, l’Astronomie, en avait rejeté les conséquences; l’antique monument allait disparaître; la science moderne allait le remplacer.” 21. Anneliese Maier, Die Vorläufer Galileis im 14. Jahrhundert: Studien zur Naturphilosophie der Spätscholastik (Rome: Storia e Letteratura, 1949). On Maier, see Annette Vogt, “Anneliese Maier und Liselotte Richter: Zwei Wissenschaftlerinnen in der Leibniz-­E dition der Preußischen Akademie der Wissenschaften,” in “Leibniz” in der Zeit des Nationalsozialismus, ed. Wenchao Li and Hartmut Rudolph (Stuttgart: Steiner, 2013), 87–104. Maier described her research proj­ect along ­t hese lines in a grant application from 1941 (p. 97). For a recent take on the positions of Duhem and Maier, see Gerhard Leibold, “Ockham und Buridan: Vorgestalten neuzeitlicher Wissenschaft?” in Erfahrung und Beweis: Die Wissenschaften von der Natur im 13.

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Notes to Pages 5–8

und 14. Jahrhundert, ed. Alexander Fidora and Matthias Lutz-­Bachmann (Berlin: Akademie, 2007), 225–31. 22. For Duhem, who began this work in 1904, the harmony between religious orthodoxy and scientific pro­g ress was an impor­tant subtext already pre­sent in the academic history of the late ­Middle Ages. In a late work, for example, he described the 1277 ban on the teaching of Aristotle by the bishop of Paris, Étienne Tempier, and the local theologians as “the birth certificate of modern physics.” Pierre Duhem, Medieval Cosmology: Theories of Infinity, Place, Time, Void, and the Plurality of Worlds, ed. Roger Ariew (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1985), 4. Duhem was a trailblazer for l­ater Catholic scientists. See the panegyric dedicated to him in Stanley L. Jaki, Scientist and Catholic: An Essay on Pierre Duhem (Front Royal, Va.: Christendom, 1991). 23. Jacob Burckhardt, The Civilization of the Re­nais­sance in Italy, trans. Samuel G. C. Middlemore (New York: Oxford University Press, 1937), 70. Some recent handbooks on Re­nais­sance humanism, such as the following one, make l­ittle mention of Burckhardt, which would have been unthinkable not long ago. Manfred Landfester, ed., Renaissance-­Humanismus: Lexikon zur Antikenrezeption (Stuttgart: Metzler, 2014). 24. Charles Homer Haskins, The Re­nais­sance of the Twelfth ­Century (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1927). 25. Competition over status within the American historical community can be seen in the “revolt of the medievalists” inspired by Haskins’s 1927 book. See Wallace K. Ferguson, The Re­ nais­sance in Historical Thought: Five Centuries of Interpretation (Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1948), 329–85; Marcia L. Colish, “Haskins’s ‘Re­nais­sance’ Seventy Years L ­ ater: Beyond Anti-­ Burckhardtianism,” Haskins Society Journal: Studies in Medieval History 11 (1998), 1–15; Marcia L. Colish, Remapping Scholasticism (Toronto: PIMS, 2000); Leidulf Melve, “ ‘The Revolt of the Medievalists’: Directions in Recent Research on the Twelfth-­Century Re­nais­sance,” JMH 32 (2006), 231–52. On the circle of students around Haskins, see Gaines Post, The Papacy and the Rise of the Universities, ed. William J. Courtenay (Leiden: Brill, 2017 [orig. 1931]), vii–­x. For criticism of Haskins from an entirely dif­fer­ent a­ ngle, see Thomas N. Bisson, The Crisis of the Twelfth ­Century: Power, Lordship, and the Origins of Eu­ro­pean Government (Prince­ton, N.J.: Prince­ton University Press, 2009). 26. Haskins, Re­nais­sance, 98: “With so much logic and philosophy to master, ­t here is ­little time and less inclination for the leisurely study of letters.” See also p. 137 on the rise of dialectic: “Literary form came to be despised; indeed, logic professed to be able to supply defects in one’s grammatical studies.” One fatal consequence, according to Haskins, was that grammar became overly abstracted. On the errors of this view, see Chapter 8 below. 27. Refer to the lit­er­a­ture in the previous few notes. 28. On ­t hese two texts, see also Rexroth, “Wissenschaft,” 128–33. 29. Ingrid Gilcher-­Holtey, “Die Phantasie an die Macht”: Mai 68 in Frankreich (Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, 1995), 47. 30. Jacques Le Goff, Intellectuals in the M ­ iddle Ages, trans. Teresa  L. Fagan (Cambridge, Mass.: Blackwell, 1993), 121. 31. Le Goff, Intellectuals, 5. 32. The following citations come from Alain De Libera, Penser au Moyen Âge (Paris: Seuil, 1991). On his reception in the history of philosophy, see the notes in Luca Bianchi, “New Perspectives on the Condemnation of 1277 and Its Aftermath,” Recherches de théologie et philosophie médiévales 70 (2003), 206–29, p.  218f. On his reception in the history of science, see Michael Borgolte, “Universität und Intellektueller: Erfindungen des Mittelalters unter dem Einfluß des Islam?” in Michael Borgolte, Mittelalter in der größeren Welt: Essays zur Geschichtsschrei­ bung und Beiträge zur Forschung, ed. Tillmann Lohse and Benjamin Scheller, 261–82 (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2014).



Notes to Pages 8–11

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33. De Libera, Penser, 12. 34. De Libera, Penser, 12–13. 35. De Libera, Penser, 24–25. On the importance of Meister Eckhart to the thesis of “déprofessionnalisation,” see Jan A. Aertsen, “Entretien avec Alain De Libera,” Recherches de théologie et philosophie médiévales 65 (1998), 168–75, p. 173f. 36. Wolfgang Kluxen, “Der Begriff der Wissenschaft,” in Die Re­nais­sance der Wissenschaften im 12. Jahrhundert, ed. Peter Weimar (Zu­rich: Artemis, 1981), 273–93, p. 282. 37. This perspective helps explain De Libera’s position in the Gouguenheim debate. Alain De Libera, “Les Latins parlent aux Latins,” in Les Grecs, les Arabes et nous: Enquête sur l’islamophobie savante, ed. Philippe Büttgen (Paris: Fayard, 2009), 171–207. See also Thomas Ricklin, “Der Fall Gouguenheim,” HZ 290 (2010), 119–35; Max Lejbowicz, ed., L’islam médiéval en terres chrétiennes: Science et idéologie (Villeneuve d’Ascq: Presses Universitaires du Septentrion, 2009). De Libera’s early evidence published in nonacademic journals can be found on p. 32 of the aforementioned work. 38. This view has largely prevailed in the last few de­c ades. See also Kurt Flasch, Das philosophische Denken im Mittelalter (Stuttgart: Reclam, 1986), 14; Bianchi, “Perspectives,” 218. 39. De Libera, Penser, 45: “Grâce à lui, en effet, nous apprenons que les pensées ne sont pas le fait des individus, qu’elles les traversent et peuvent même leur survivre, intactes, comme le brouillon de vies ­f utures. Par lui, nous découvrons que nous sommes moins fils de nos oeuvres qu’usufruitiers du pensable et débiteurs de paroles sans sujet. Ce n’est pas rien. Comprendre l’histoire de la pensée comme une histoire anonyme, telle est selon nous la première tâche du médiéviste.” 40. De Libera, Penser, 38–61, p. 38: “A Kant affirmant qu’il n’y avait rien entre Aristote et lui, on répondra désormais qu’il n’y a rien entre Ockham et Frege.” On the linguistic turn, see Ute Daniel, Kompendium Kulturgeschichte: Theorien, Praxis, Schlüsselwörter, 4th  ed. (Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, 2004), 430–43; Elizabeth A. Clark, History, Theory, Text: Historians and the Linguistic Turn (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 2004); Georg G. Iggers, “Zur ‘linguistischen Wende’ im Geschichtsdenken und in der Geschichtsschreibung,” Geschichte und Gesellschaft 21 (1995), 557–70. On its relative insignificance for medieval historical research, see Frank Rexroth, “Politische Rituale und die Sprache des Politischen in der historischen Mittelalterforschung,” in Die Sprache des Politischen in actu: Zum Verhältnis von politischem Handeln und politischer Sprache von der Antike bis ins 20. Jahrhundert, ed. Angela de Benedictis et  al. (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2009), 71–90, pp. 84–87. 41. Colish, Remapping Scholasticism, 7 (quote), 9, 11, 13 (contrafactual thinking), 15f. 42. Comparisons of Arabic and Christian conceptions of science, for example between Averroes and Thomas Aquinas, often emphasize this difference. See recently Sebastian Günther, “Ibn Rushd and Thomas Aquinas on Education,” in The Heritage of Arabo-­Islamic Learning: Studies Presented to Wadad Kadi, ed. Maurice  A. Pomerantz and Aram  A. Shahin (Leiden: Brill, 2016), 250–83. For further lit­er­a­ture, see p. 252. 43. In general, see Niklas Luhmann, Introduction to Systems Theory, ed. Dirk Baecker, trans. Peter Gilgen (Cambridge: Polity Press, 2013), esp. p. 121. 44. On ­t hese accomplishments and their subsequent reception, see Rudolf Schieffer, Wissenschaftliche Arbeit im 9. Jahrhundert (Paderborn: Schöningh, 2010). See also Paul Leo Butzer, Max Kerner, and Walter Oberschelp, eds., Charlemagne and His Heritage: 1200 Years of Civilization and Science in Eu­rope, vol. 1: Scholarship, Worldview, and Understanding (Turnhout: Brepols, 1997). 45. Wilhelm Wattenbach, Das Schriftwesen im Mittelalter, 3rd ed. (Leipzig: Hirzel, 1896), 433: “Grammata quot, sulci quot sunt, quot denique puncti, / Inquit, in hoc libro, tot crimina iam tibi dono.” O ­ thers refer to the pious work of copying Horace or Josephus. Haskins, Re­nais­ sance, 73.

238

Notes to Pages 12–15

46. Ivo of Chartres attributes this statement to Gregory in his Decretum, but Urban II may actually be the source. Gerhart B. Ladner, “Two Gregorian Letters on the Sources and Nature of Gregory VII’s Reform Ideology,” in Gerhart B. Ladner, Images and Ideas in the ­Middle Ages: Selected Studies in History and Art, 2 vols. (Rome: Edizioni di Storia e Letteratura, 1983), 667–86, pp. 669–79. 47. Alan of Lille, De fide catholica contra haereticos sui temporis, praesertim Albigenses, PL 210.305–30, col. 333A (c. 1.30): “Sed quia auctoritas cereum habet nasum, id est in diversum potest flecti sensum, rationibus roborandum est.” 48. Helen Waddell, The Wandering Scholars (London: Constable, 1952 [orig. 1927]), 116. 49. Étienne Gilson, History of Christian Philosophy in the ­Middle Ages (London: Random House, 1955). 50. On the French so­cio­log­i­cal proj­ect to create a “social history of the categories of ­human intellect” during the first half of the twentieth ­century, see Marcel Mauss, “Eine Kategorie des menschlichen Geistes: Der Begriff der Person und des ‘Ich,’ ” in Marcel Mauss, Soziologie und Anthropologie, vol. 2, 221–52 (Frankfurt am Main: Fischer, 1989 [orig. 1938]), 223. Understanding the difference between institutions and intellects, or in other words between the operative actions and semantics cultivated in science’s institutional structures, has been recognized as an impor­tant challenge for the sociology of science. David Kaldewey, Wahrheit und Nützlichkeit: Selbstbeschreibungen der Wissenschaft zwischen Autonomie und gesellschaftlicher Relevanz (Bielefeld: Transcript, 2013), 39–48, 151–53 especially. Resolving t­ hese questions is impor­tant, Kaldewey shows, b ­ ecause modern science relies on the simultaneous maintenance of, and interplay between, distinct discourses of truth (or autonomy) and of utility (or practice). Kaldewey is able to illuminate this prob­lem with remarkable so­cio­log­i­cal as well as historical depth. 51. Karen Gloy, Vernunft und das Andere der Vernunft (Freiburg im Breisgau: Alber, 2001), 13–16. Although Gloy means two specific methods of critiquing reason ­here, her typology is applicable to criticism in general. See also Titus Stahl, Immanente Kritik: Elemente einer Theorie sozialer Praktiken (Frankfurt am Main: Campus, 2013), 28. 52. Frank Rexroth, Wenn Studieren blöde macht: Die Kritik an den Scholastikern und die Kritik an Experten während des späteren Mittelalters, Randgänge der Mediävistik 4 (Bern: Stämpfli, 2015), 32f. 53. See h ­ ere and below Heinrich M. Schmidinger, “Scholastik,” Historisches Wörterbuch der Philosophie 8 (1992), cols. 1332–42. On the use of the term by monks, see col. 1334. On schola as a designation for the monastery as a ­whole, see Benediktsregel / Rule of St. Benedict, ed. Ulrich Faust (Stuttgart: Reclam, 2009), 12 (prol. 45). See also Basilius P. Steidle, “Dominici schola servitii,” Benediktinische Monatsschrift 28 (1952), 397–406. 54. Godfrey of St. Victor, Microcosmus, ed. Philippe Delhaye (Lille: Duculot, 1951), 213 (c. 3.189): “Quomodocumque autem sit, nos hanc questionem tamquam minus ad nos pertinentem, scolasticis disputationibus relinquimus, ad alia nostram convertentes intentionem.” See also Philippe Delhaye, Le Microcosmus de Godefroy de Saint-­Victor: Étude théologique (Lille: Duculout, 1951), 22. 55. Rupert of Deutz, Super quaedam capitula regulae divi Benedicti abbatis, PL 170.477–538. col. 496A (c. 1): “Habueram quippe cum aliquo magni nominis, magnaeque aestimationis scholastico licet monacho certamen permolestum de sacramento corporis et sanguinis domini.” 496B (c. 1): “Putarem ego novum vel incognitum hoc esse adversariis, praesertim nominatis, et scientia non parum praesumentibus, maxime in comparatione mei rudis, ut putabant, atque iuvenculi? At illi me ex hoc diffamare coeperunt, tanquam haereticum.” 56. Rexroth, “Die scholastische Wissenschaft.” 57. Peter Classen, “Die geistesgeschichtliche Lage: Anstöße und Möglichkeiten,” in Die Re­nais­sance der Wissenschaften im 12. Jahrhundert, ed. Peter Weimar (Zu­rich: Artemis, 1981), 11–32, p. 24.



Notes to Pages 18–21

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Chapter 2 1. Werner Conze and Manfred Riedel, “Arbeit,” in Geschichtliche Grundbegriffe: Historisches Lexikon zur politisch-­sozialen Sprache in Deutschland, Bd. 1, ed. Otto Brunner et al. (Stuttgart: Klett-­Cotta, 1972), 1.154–215, pp. 158–60; Otto Gerhard Oexle, “Stand, Klasse (Antike und Mittelalter),” in Geschichtliche Grundbegriffe: Historisches Lexikon zur politisch-­sozialen Sprache in Deutschland, Bd. 6, ed. Otto Brunner et  al. (Stuttgart: Klett-­Cotta, 1990), 156–200, p. 169ff. 2. Peter Damian, Sermones, ed. Giovanni Lucchesi, CCCM 57 (Turnhout: Brepols, 1983), 34 (no.  6.2): “Superata est ergo sapientia Platonis a discipulo piscatoris.” Meant h ­ ere is Saint Eleuchadius, who himself became a phi­los­o­pher in the new spirit. In general, see Katrin Pietzner, Bildung, Elite und Konkurrenz: Heiden und Christen vor der Zeit Constantins (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2013). 3. Ulrich Eigler, “Überlieferung durch die Hintertür? Die Tradition klassischer lateinischer Autoren als Rekonstruktion des Wissenshintergrunds der Kirchenväter,” in Karolingische Klöster: Wissenstransfer und kulturelle Innovation, ed. Julia Becker, Tino Licht, and Stefan Weinfurter (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2015), 7–22, p. 15ff. on Caesarius. 4. Ulrich Köpf, “Hoheslied III, Auslegungsgeschichte im Christentum 1: Alte Kirche bis Herder,” in Theologische Realenzyklopädie, vol. 15 (Berlin: De Gruyter, 1986), 508–13; Friedrich Ohly and Nicola Kleine, eds., Das St. Trudperter Hohelied: Eine Lehre der liebenden Gotteserkenntnis (Frankfurt am Main: Deutscher Klassiker Verlag, 1998), 319–26; Friedrich Ohly, Hohelied-­ Studien: Grundzüge einer Geschichte der Hoheliedauslegung des Abendlandes bis um 1200 (Wiesbaden: F. Steiner, 1958). Further lit­er­a­ture can be found in Horst Fuhrmann, Cicero und das Seelenheil oder Wie kam die heidnische Antike durch das christliche Mittelalter? (Munich: Saur, 2003), 45–48 especially. 5. In the 1140s, the Roman Nicolò Maniacutia (Maniacoria) assigned his suffraganeus the goal of illuminating the literal meaning of difficult biblical passages. He also viewed knowledge of the Church F ­ athers and Jewish exegesis as essential. Nicolaus Maniacoria, Suffraganeus bibliothece, ed. Cornelia Linde, CCCM 262 (Turnhout: Brepols, 2013), xxi and 10. 6. Quote by Friedrich Ohly in Ohly and Kleine, eds., St.  Trudperter Hohelied, 320. The “Christian intellectual” milieu in which Jerome moved about has been reconstructed by Stefan Rebenich, Hieronymus und sein Kreis: Prosopographische und sozialgeschichtliche Untersuch­ ungen (Stuttgart: Steiner, 1992). 7. Eigler, “Überlieferung.” On the importance of the Carolingian period for the transmission and reception of ancient pagan lit­er­a­ture, see Julia Becker, Tino Licht, and Stefan Weinfurter, eds., Karolingische Klöster: Wissenstransfer und kulturelle Innovation (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2015); Johannes Fried, Karl der Große: Gewalt und Glaube, 4th  ed. (Munich: C.  H. Beck, 2014); Fuhrmann, Cicero, 15–17; Butzer, Kerner, and Oberschelp, eds., Charlemagne. For a more reserved view of their learned achievement, see Schieffer, Arbeit. 8. Ernst Robert Curtius, Eu­ro­pean Lit­e r­a­ture and the Latin ­Middle Ages, trans. Willard R. Trask (Prince­ton, N.J.: Prince­ton University Press, 1990), 42. 9. Martianus Capella, De nuptiis Philologiae et Mercurii, Bücher 1–2, ed. Lucio Cristante (Hildesheim: Weidmann, 2011); Cassiodorus, Institutiones, ed. R. A. B. Mynors, 2nd ed. (Oxford: Clarendon, 1961); Isidore of Seville, Etymologiarum sive originum libri 20, ed. Wallace Martin Lindsay, 2 vols. (Oxford: Clarendon, 1911). 10. Arno Borst, Astrolab und Klosterreform an der Jahrtausendwende (Heidelberg: Winter, 1989), 58. 11. Rodulfus Glaber, Historiarum libri quinque, ed. John France (Oxford: Clarendon, 1989), 2.12, p.  92. See also Jan  M. Ziolkowski, “A Dilemma for Twelfth-­Century Masters and Disciples: The Revival of the Apostolic Past and the Danger of Charisma,” in Meister und Schüler

240

Notes to Pages 21–23

in Geschichte und Gegenwart: Von Religionen der Antike bis zur modernen Esoterik, ed. Almut-­ Barbara Renger (Göttingen: V&R Unipress, 2012), 231–50, p. 240f. 12. Heinrich Fichtenau, “Die Ketzer von Orléans (1022),” in Ex ipsis rerum documentis. Beiträge zur Mediävistik: Festschrift für Harald Zimmermann zum 65. Geburtstag, ed. Klaus Herbers, Hans Henning Kortüm, and Carlo Servatius (Sigmaringen: Thorbecke, 1992), 417–27. 13. Fried, Karl der Große, 37. For grammar specifically, see Martin Irvine, The Making of Textual Culture: “Grammatica” and Literary Theory, 350–1100 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994). 14. As Pope Zacharias (d. 752) wrote in a letter to Boniface around 744: “spiritaliter stude ad normam rectitudinis reformare.” Die Briefe des heiligen Bonifatius und Lullus, ed. Michael Tangl, MGH Epp. sel. 1 (Berlin: Weidmann, 1916), 108.7 (Ep. 58). Compare with Ep. 60 (p. 121.31) written in 745 where the “via [. . .] rectitudinis” is discussed. See also Josef Fleckenstein, Die Bildungsreform Karls des Großen als Verwirklichung der norma rectitudinis (Bigge a. d. Ruhr: Josefs-­Druckerei, 1953), 10, 52f. Pointing out that education was externally referential is not the same as agreeing with Herbert Zielinski that all early medieval school activity was characterized by “complete integration into a religious-­ecclesiastical context.” Herbert Zielinski, “Domschulen und Klosterschulen als Stätten der Bildung und Ausbildung,” in Canossa 1077, Erschütterung der Welt: Geschichte, Kunst und Kultur am Aufgang der Romanik, ed. Christoph Stiegemann and Matthias Wemhoff, vol. 1 (Munich: Hirmer, 2006), 175–81, p. 175. 15. Schriften zur Komputistik im Frankenreich von 721 bis 818, ed. Arno Borst, MGH QQ zur Geistgesch. 21.1 (Hanover: Hahnsche Buchhandlung, 2006), 63–95. 16. Curtius, Eu­ro­pean Lit­er­a­ture, 39. 17. Curtius, Eu­ro­pean Lit­er­a­ture, 40. 18. Jerome, Adversus Vigilantium, ed. Jean-­Louis Feiertag, CCSL 79C (Turnhout: Brepols, 2005), 28.14: “Monachus autem non doctoris habet, sed plangentis officium, qui vel se vel mundum lugeat et Domini pavidus praestoletur adventum, qui sciens imbecillitatem suam et vas fragile quod portat, timet offendere, ne impingat et corruat atque frangatur.” On the wide reception of this passage among the early scholastics, see the apparatus to the edition and also Roscelin’s letter to Abelard: Roscelin of Compiègne, Epistola ad Petrum [Abaelardum], PL 178.370D. 19. On monastic schools, see Becker, Licht, and Weinfurter, eds., Karolingische Klöster; Martin Kintzinger, “Monastische Kultur und die Kunst des Wissens im Mittelalter,” in Kloster und Bildung im Mittelalter, ed. Nathalie Kruppa and Jürgen Wilke (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2006), 15–47; Thomas Frenz, “Eine Klosterschule von innen,” in Kloster und Bildung im Mittelalter, ed. Nathalie Kruppa and Jürgen Wilke (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2006), 49–57; Magde M. Hildebrandt, The External School in Carolingian Society (Leiden: Brill, 1992). 20. Frank Rexroth, “Monastischer und scholastischer Habitus: Beobachtungen zum Verhältnis zwischen zwei Lebensformen des 12. Jahrhunderts,” in Innovationen durch Deuten und Gestalten: Klöster im Mittelalter zwischen Jenseits und Welt, ed. Gert Melville, Bernd Schneidmüller, and Stefan Weinfurter (Regensburg: Schnell & Steiner, 2014), 317–33, pp. 321–24. A recent example of this cliché about the Re­nais­sance is Stephen Greenblatt, The Swerve: How the World Became Modern (New York: W. W. Norton, 2011). 21. Rexroth, “Monastischer Habitus”; Ernst H. Kantorowicz, “Die Wiederkehr gelehrter Anachorese im Mittelalter,” in Selected Studies, ed. Ernst H. Kantorowicz (Locust Valley, N.Y.: J. J. Augustin, 1965), 339–51. 22. Peter von Moos, “Was allen, den meisten oder den Sachkundigen richtig scheint: Über das Fortleben des Endoxon im Mittelalter,” in Historia philosophiae Medii Aevi: Studien zur Geschichte der Philosophie des Mittelalters, ed. Burkhard Mojsisch and Olaf Pluta (Amsterdam: B. R. Grüner, 1991), 711–44; Peter von Moos, “Die angesehene Meinung: Studien zum “endoxon” im Mittelalter, Teil 2,” in Topik und Rhetorik: Ein interdisziplinäres Symposium, ed. Thomas Schirren and Gert Ueding (Tübingen: Max Niemeyer, 2000), 143–63. Further works on this



Notes to Pages 23–26

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theme by von Moos ­w ill play an impor­tant role below. For example, see Peter von Moos, “Sensus communis im Mittelalter: Sechster Sinn und sozialer Sinn; Epistemologische, ekklesiologische und eschatologische Aspekte,” in Gesammelte Studien zum Mittelalter, Bd. 3: Öffentliches und Privates, Gemeinsames und Eigenes, ed. Gert Melville (Münster: LIT, 2007), 395–458. 23. Heinrich Fichtenau, “Monastisches und scholastisches Lesen,” in Herrschaft, Kirche, Kultur: Beiträge zur Geschichte des Mittelalters; Festschrift für Friedrich Prinz zu seinem 65. Geburtstag, ed. Georg Jenal and Stephanie Haarländer (Stuttgart: Hiersemann, 1993), 317–37. 24. Mia Münster-­Swendsen, “Medieval ‘Virtuosity’: Classroom Practice and the Transfer of Charismatic Power in Medieval Scholarly Culture c. 1000–1230,” in Negotiating Heritage: Memories of the ­Middle Ages, ed. Mette Birkedal Bruun (Turnhout: Brepols, 2008), 43–63, p. 46. On the idea of teacher as curriculum, see p. 56; and also C. Stephen Jaeger, The Envy of Angels: Cathedral Schools and Social Ideals in Medieval Eu­rope, 950–1200 (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1994). 25. Zielinski, “Domschulen”; Joachim Ehlers, “Domschulen,” LMA 3 (1986), cols. 1226–29; Claudia Märtl, “Die Bamberger Schulen: Ein Bildungszentrum des Salierreiches,” in Die Salier und das Reich, Bd. 3: Gesellschaftlicher und ideengeschichtlicher Wandel im Reich der Salier, ed. Stefan Weinfurter (Sigmaringen: Thorbecke, 1992), 327–45. For an exemplary study of the subjects taught at the cathedral schools of the ­Middle Rhine, see Johannes Staub, “Domschulen am Mittelrhein um und nach 1000,” in Bischof Burchard von Worms 1000–1025, ed. Wilfried Hartmann (Mainz: Gesellschaft für Mittelrheinische Kirchengschichte, 2000), 279–309. 26. Timothy Reuter, “The ‘Imperial Church System’ of the Ottonian and Salian Rulers: A Reconsideration,” Journal of Ecclesiastical History 33 (1982), 347–74. 27. A con­temporary account can be found in Philippe Delhaye, “L’organisation scolaire au XIIe siècle,” Traditio 5 (1947), 211–68, p. 240. The educational edge west of the Rhine is a central theme in the works of Joachim Ehlers. See the contributions in the first section of Joachim Ehlers, Ausgewählte Aufsätze, ed. Martin Kintzinger and Bernd Schneidmüller (Berlin: Duncker und Humblot, 1996). 28. The lemma “Schule” in the Historisches Wörterbuch der Philosophie is unfortunately not very helpful. Instead, see Heinrich M. Schmidinger, “Scholastik,” col. 1333f. 29. Erving Goffman, Asylums: Essays on the Social Situation of M ­ ental Patients and Other Inmates (New York: Routledge, 2007 [orig. 1961]), 1–124. 30. Maria Lahaye-­Geusen, Das Opfer der Kinder: Ein Beitrag zur Liturgie-­und Sozialgeschichte des Mönchtums im hohen Mittelalter (Altenberge: Oros, 1991), 185–214. c. 2.3.6. 31. Lahaye-­Geusen, Opfer, 344f. 32. Lahaye-­Geusen, Opfer, 346f. and n. 51: “Custos infantum qui et actor ordinatur probatissime castitatis atque munditie frater, vir gravitati studens vitiorum perscrutor, commissorum infantum clementissimus previsor.” On the dating of the old Fleury Consuetudines, see p. 34. 33. Corpus Consuetudinum Monasticarum, vol. 7.3: Consuetudinum Saeculi X/XI/XII, Monumenta Non-­Cluniacensia, ed. Kassius Hallinger (Siegeburg: F. Schmitt, 1984), 76f. (Regularis concordia): “De pueris adolescentibusque. Itinerantes vero non iuvenculos sed adultos quorum ammonitione meliorentur secum in comitatu ducant. Domi vero degentes non solum fratres sed etiam abbates adolescentes vel puerulos non brachiis amplexando vel labris leviter deosculando, sed caritativo animi affectu sine verbis adulatoriis reverenter cum magna cautela diligant. Nec ad obsequium privatum quempiam illorum nec saltim sub spiritualis rei obtentu solum deducere praesumant, sed uti regula praecipit sub sui custodis vigilantia iugiter maneat. Nec ipse custos cum singulo aliquo puerulo sine tertio qui testis assistat migrandi licentiam habeat, sed solito cum tota scola, si res rationabilis exigerit, quo necesse est sub silentio vel psalmodiis inserviendo cum benedictione eat.” 34. Sita Steckel, Kulturen des Lehrens im Früh-­und Hochmittelalter: Autorität, Wissenskonzepte und Netzwerke von Gelehrten (Cologne: Böhlau, 2011), 227f.

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Notes to Pages 26–28

35. Eadmer, The Life of St. Anselm, Archbishop of Canterbury, ed. Richard W. Southern (Oxford: Clarendon, 1972), 20f. (c. 11). For further evidence of this meta­phor, see Alex J. Novikoff, The Medieval Culture of Disputation: Pedagogy, Practice, and Per­for­mance (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2013), 57f. 36. Adémar de Chabannes, Chronicon, ed. Pascale Bourgain, CCCM 129 (Turnhout: Brepols, 1999), 119 (c. 3.5): “Beda enim docuit Simplicium, et Simplicius Rabanum, qui a transmarinis oris a domno imperatore Karolo susceptus est, et pontifex in Francia factus Alcuinum docuit, et Alcuinus Smaragdum imbuit, Smaragdus autem docuit Theodulfum Aurelianensem episcopum, Theodulfus vero Heliam Scotigenam Engolismensem episcopum, Helias autem Heirium, Heiricus Remigium et Ucbaldum Calvum monachos heredes philosophie reliquit.” 37. On the norma rectitudinis, see ­earlier in this chapter. 38. See note 2 e­ arlier in this chapter. 39. Jerome, In Hieremiam libri VI, ed. Siegfried Reiter, CCSL 74 (Turnhout: Brepols, 1960), 313 (c. 6.22.7): “iuxta incrementa quidem aetatis per vagitus et infantiam proficere videbitur sapientia et aetate, sed perfectus vir in ventre femineo solitis mensibus continebitur.” The prophet Jeremiah (31:22) also referred to him when he said: “A w ­ oman ­w ill encompass a man [in her womb].” 40. On the special status of monastic oblates, see Steckel, Kulturen, 462. Charlemagne famously had difficulties with writing b ­ ecause he began too late in his life. Einhard, Vita Karoli magni, ed. Georg Heinrich Pertz and Georg Waitz, MGH SS rer. Germ. 25 (Hanover: Hahnsche Buchhandlung, 1911), 30.18 (c. 25). 41. For a study of historical emotions in the Casus sancti Galli, see Benedikt Tremp, “Emotional Communities in Ekkehards IV Casus sancti Galli,” Schweizerische Zeitschrift für Religions-­und Kulturgeschichte 106 (2012), 505–29. 42. Hildemar of Corbie, Expositio regulae [Benedicti], ed. Rupert Mittermüller (Regensburg: Pustet, 1880), 32: “Nam unusquisque, qui imbuitur, ejus filius est, qui imbuit.” See also Steckel, Kulturen, 224. On the imagery of f­ ather and son, and of nourishment, see pp. 110–16, 234–40. 43. William of Conches, Dragmaticon Philosophiae, ed. Italo Ronca, CCCM 152 (Turnhout: Brepols, 1997), 271.20 (c. 6.27.3): “qui magistrum ut patrem diligat, vel etiam plus quam patrem.” 44. Münster-­Swendsen, “Virtuosity,” 51. On the erotic in letters between friends, see Julian  P. Haseldine, “Understanding the Language of Amicitia: The Friendship Circle of Peter of Celle (c. 1115–1183),” JMH 20 (1994), 237–60, p. 237. 45. Die Tegernseer Briefsammlung (Froumund), ed. Karl Strecker, MGH Epp. sel. 3 (Berlin: Weidmann, 1925), 28, n. 7. 46. Formulae Merowingici et Karolini Aevi, ed. Karl Zeumer, MGH Formulae (Hanover: Hahnsche Buchhandlung, 1886), 431.26–30. The verses are ascribed to Notker Balbulus with Solomon the likely recipient. 47. Fulbert of Chartres, Letters, ed. Frederick Behrends (Oxford: Clarendon, 1976), 174 (Ep. 95). 48. Andreas Beriger, Orbilius plagosus: Zur Geschichte des prügelnden Lehrers im Spätmittelalter und in der Re­nais­sance (Zug: Speck, 1990). 49. Niklaus Largier, In Praise of the Whip: A Cultural History of Arousal, ed. Graham Harman (New York: Zone, 2007). On the logic of correction in the convent, especially of the youn­ gest, see Lahaye-­Geusen, Opfer, 388–99. 50. Peter Damian, Vita Romualdi, ed. Giovanni Tabacco (Rome: Istituto Storico Italiano per il Medio Evo, 1957), 91 (c. 49). 51. Above all, see the section “The Triumph of Ganymede: Gay Lit­er­a­ture of the High ­M iddle Ages” in chapter 9 of John Boswell, Chris­tian­ity, Social Tolerance, and Homo­sexuality: Gay P ­ eople in Western Eu­rope from the Beginning of the Christian Era to the F ­ ourteenth C ­ entury (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1980). Against this view, see Mia Münster-­Swendsen, “The Model of Scholastic Mastery in Northern Eu­rope c. 970–1200,” in Teaching and Learning in Northern Eu­rope, 1000–1200, ed. Sally N. Vaughn and Jay Rubenstein (Turnhout: Brepols, 2006),



Notes to Pages 28–31

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307–42, p. 328; C. Stephen Jaeger, Ennobling Love: In Search of a Lost Sensibility (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1999), 14–26; Steckel, Kulturen, 273. 52. Jaeger, Envy, 3f. 53. Jaeger, Envy, 76. 54. Jaeger, Envy, 11f. 55. Jaeger, Envy, 77. 56. Jaeger, Envy, 81. This view stands in stark contrast to the familiar pictures of the “Twelfth-­ Century Re­nais­sance.” See John van Engen, “The Twelfth C ­ entury: Reading, Reason, and Revolt in a World of Custom,” in Eu­ro­pean Transformations: The Long Twelfth C ­ entury, ed. Thomas F. X. Noble and John van Engen (Notre Dame, Ind.: University of Notre Dame Press, 2012), 17–44, p. 19f. 57. Jaeger, Envy, 4–9, p. 7f: “A charismatic culture makes the body and physical presence into the mediator of cultural values. . . . ​The h ­ uman presence was the raw material ready to be s­ haped and formed like the clay on the potter’s wheel or the sculptor’s marble block; the end product a disciplined ­human being. . . . ​Physical presence is accordingly the anchor of charismatic culture.” A nostalgic note can be heard ­here. ­These characteristics represent a time that has reached its inevitable end, a culture that has collapsed (p. 9). He calls for a “rescue operation for that rich but neglected culture” (p. 17). 58. On the afterlife of the charismatic teaching idea, see Chapter 3 below. 59. Münster-­Swendsen, “Virtuosity”; Münster-­Swendsen, “Model.” For the “love relationship,” see p. 317 in this last work. 60. Steckel, Kulturen. 61. Augustine, Confessionum libri XIII, ed. Lucas Verheijen, CCSL 27 (Turnhout: Brepols, 1981), 14 (c. 1.26.19). On the importance of grammar and the grammar-­based knowledge of Virgil and Ovid possessed by one “so thoroughly monastic as Bede,” see Irvine, Making, 277–79. 62. Disticha Catonis, Prol. 20: Coniugem ama, 25: Meretricem fuge! See also Rolf Köhn, “Schulbildung und Trivium im lateinischen Hochmittelalter und ihr möglicher praktischer Nutzen,” in Schulen und Studium im sozialen Wandel des hohen und späten Mittelalters, ed. Johannes Fried (Sigmaringen: Thorbecke, 1986), 203–84, p. 228. 63. Ruotger, Vita Brunonis archiepiscopi Coloniensis, ed. Irene Ott, MGH SS rer. Germ. N.S. 10 (Weimar: Böhlau, 1951), 9 (c. 8): “Scurrilia et mimica, quae in comediis et tragediis a personis variis edita quidam concrepantes risu se infinito concutiunt, ipse semper serio lectitabat; materiam pro minimo, auctoritatem in verborum compositionibus pro maximo reputabat. Translaticiis usus est scolis, non corpore quidem, sed mente quietus.” 64. Köhn, “Schulbildung,” 228f., 237. 65. Bernard of Clairvaux, Sämtliche Werke: Lateinisch/Deutsch, ed. Gerhard B. Winkler, 10 vols. (Innsbruck: Tyrolia, 1990–99), 10.292 (references to Ovid can be found in the index). On the relationship between monasticism and the educational heritage of antiquity, see Friedrich Prinz, Askese und Kultur: Vor-­und frühbenediktinisches Mönchtum an der Wiege Europas (Munich: C. H. Beck, 1980), 59–67. Abelard and Heloise, The Letter Collection of Peter Abelard and Heloise, ed. David Luscombe and Betty Radice (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 2013), 29, n. 64–67 (with regard to Letter I, 17f.). 66. Fuhrmann, Cicero, 35. See also the references to further lit­er­a­ture on p. 58 of that volume. 67. Gregory the G ­ reat, Dialogi, ed. Umberto Moricca (Rome: Tip. del Senato, 1924), 71f. (Dialogue 2 prol.): “Sed dum in eis multos ire per abrupta vitiorum cernerit, eum, quem quasi in ingressum mundi posuerat, retraxit pedem, ne si quid de scientia eius adtingerit, ipse quoque postmodum in inmane praecipitium totus iret.” 68. Caesarius of Arles, Opera omnia, vol. 2, ed. Germain Morin (Bruges: Maretioli, 1942), 299f.; William of Saint-­Th ierry, Opera omnia, vol. 6: Vita prima Sancti Bernardi Claraevallis abbatis, ed. Paul Verdeyen and Christine Vande Veire, CCCM 89 B (Turnhout: Brepols, 2011), 39 (Vita sancti Bernardi 1.9).

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Notes to Pages 31–35

69. See chapter 1 in Guibert of Nogent, Autobiographie, ed. Edmond-­René Labande (Paris: Les Belles Lettres, 1981). Increasing scholarly attention has been given to Guibert’s reflections on the development of his psyche. Karin Fuchs, Zeichen und Wunder bei Guibert de Nogent: Kommunikation, Deutungen und Funktionalisierungen von Wundererzählungen im 12. Jahrhundert (Munich: Oldenbourg, 2008); Jay Rubenstein, Guibert of Nogent: Portrait of a Medieval Mind (New York: Routledge, 2002); Robert I. Moore, “Guibert of Nogent and His World,” in Studies in Medieval History: Presented to R. H. C. Davis, ed. Henry Mayr-­Harting and Robert I. Moore (London: Hambledon Press, 1985), 107–17. 70. Guibert of Nogent, Autobiographie, ed. Labande, 98 (c. 1.14): “Crucem, inquit, posuerunt presbyteri in renibus eius!” 71. Guibert of Nogent, Autobiographie, ed. Labande, 28 (c. 1.4). Translation: Guibert of Nogent, A Monk’s Confession: The Memoirs of Guibert of Nogent, trans. Paul J. Archambault (University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press, 1996), 15. 72. Analecta Dublinensia: Three Medieval Latin Texts in the Library of the Trinity College Dublin, ed. Marvin Colker (Cambridge, Mass.: Medieval Acad­emy of Amer­i­ca, 1975), 131–40 (nos. 18–20). A summary of the contents can be found at pp. 84–86. See also p. 71 for the identity of the person named h ­ ere. 73. Guibert of Nogent, Autobiographie, ed. Labande, 36 (c. 1.5): “Nihil enim difficilius invenias quam si velis disserere ipse quod nescias, dicenti quidem obscurum, obscurius audienti, non secus ac si lapidem uterque reddat.” Translation: Archambault, Monk’s Confession, 18–19. 74. It is difficult to understand how Stephen Jaeger overlooked ­these darker sides of the student-­teacher relationship, seeing them only as further evidence of “ennobling love.” Münster-­ Swendsen has rightly challenged him, calling it “heart-­rendingly horrible.” Jaeger, Love, 64f.; Jaeger, Envy, 226–29; Münster-­Swendsen, “Model,” 316. 75. Ekkehard IV, St. Galler Klostergeschichten (Casus sancti Galli), ed. Hans F. Haefele and Ernst Tremp, MGH SS rer. Germ. 82 (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 2020), 222 (c. 32): “Collectis autem undequaque discipulis eius sepultus est in aecclesia sancti Germani.” 76. Barbara H. Rosenwein, Emotional Communities in the Early ­Middle Ages (Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell University Press, 2006), 16–25. 77. Ekkehard IV, Klostergeschichten, 224 (c. 33): “De Notkero, Ratperto, Tuotilone, discipulis eius et Marcelli, quoniam quidem ‘cor et anima una erant’ (cf. Acts 4:32), mixtim, qualia tres unus fecerint, quantum a patribus audivimus, narrare incipimus.” 78. Ekkehard IV, Klostergeschichten, 228 (c. 34 on embracing and c. 36 on salutations). 79. Ekkehard IV, Klostergeschichten, 228–36. (cc. 35 and 36 respectively). 80. Ekkehard IV, Klostergeschichten, 124, 236. (cc. 3 and 36). 81. Ekkehard IV, Klostergeschichten, 116 (c. 1). See also Notker the Stammerer, Taten Kaiser Karls des Großen, ed. Hans F. Haefele, MGH SS rer. Germ. N.S. 12 (Berlin: Weidmann, 1959), 4f. (c. 1.3). 82. John of Salisbury, Entheticus maior and minor, ed. Jan van Laarhoven, 3 vols. (Leiden: Brill, 1987), 1.216 (c. 3.1719–28). On the desire to be admitted into the claustrum, see Mayke de Jong, “Internal Cloisters: The Case of Ekkehard’s Casus Sancti Galli,” in Grenze und Differenz im frühen Mittelalter, ed. Walter Pohl and Helmut Reimitz (Vienna: Österreichische Akademie der Wissenschaften, 2000), 209–21. 83. John of Salisbury, Policratici sive De nugis curialium et vestigiis philosophorum libri VIII, ed. Clemens C. I. Webb, 2 vols. (Oxford: Clarendon, 1909), 2.214. (c. 7.24, 703b): “Fertur Plato, cum ei condiscipuli inviderent, Socratem interrogasse qua ratione posset hominum declinare invidiam. Cui Socrates: Esto, inquit, ut Tersites.” The most striking feature of this statement is how odious it is. It is unclear in what source John found it. 84. Thangmar, Vita Bernwardi episcopi Hildesheimensis, ed. Georg Heinrich Pertz, MGH SS 4 (Hanover: Hahnsche Buchhandlung, 1841), 754–82, p. 758.18 (c. 1): “Mox itaque, ut de sancto



Notes to Pages 35–38

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Daniele legitur, inveni in illo decuplum in omni intelligentia super coaevos eius . . . ​more prudentissimae apis singulas lectiones, quas in scolis in diversis libris exponebam, remotiori loco sedens intento auditu captabat, quas tamen postea pueris considens felici furto perfecte docebat et illorum scientiae inprimebat.” 85. Norbert of Iburg, Vita Bennonis II. episcopi Osnabrugensis, ed. Harry Bresslau, MGH SS 30.2 (Leipzig: Hiersemann, 1926), 869–92, p. 873 (c. 3–4). 86. Ruotger, Brunonis, 5 and 8f. (cc. 4 and 8). 87. Johann of Salisbury, Policraticus, 1.164 (c. 2.28, 473d). 88. On envy and the invidi, see the previous pages. On the semimagistri, see Ekkehard IV, Klostergeschichten, 372, 526 (cc. 80 and 141). 89. The monk Rainardus, who de­cided on an eremitic life, defended the choice against Ivo of Chartres along ­t hese lines. Germain Morin, “Rainaud l’ermite et Ives de Chartres: Un épisode de la crise du cénobitisme au XIe–­X IIe siècle,” Revue bénédictine 40 (1928), 99–115, p. 104. 90. Ekkehard IV, Klostergeschichten, 232 (c. 36). 91. Niklas Luhmann, Love as Passion: The Codification of Intimacy, trans. Jeremy Gaines and Doris L. Jones (Cambridge, Mass.: Polity Press, 1986), 8f. On the discomfort that comes with such a social constructivist perspective, see Rosenwein, Communities, 16–20. ­Because of the proximity of emotions to values and morals, critics of “moral relativism” have also raised objections. Steven Lukes, Moral Relativism (London: Picador/Macmillan, 2008), 129–35 especially. Setting aside social constructivism, the online journal Amity: The Journal of Friendship Studies (founded in 2013) approaches the subject with an emphatic, even sociotherapeutic approach: http://­a mityjournal​.­leeds​.­ac​.­u k​/­issues/ (last modified March 30, 2018). 92. Niklas Luhmann, Love: A Sketch, ed. André Kieserling, trans. Kathleen Cross (Malden, Mass.: Polity Press, 2010), 35. See also p. 32: Love “is applied to itself before it chooses an object for itself. One loves loving and, therefore, loves a person whom one can love.” 93. Augustine, Confessiones, ed. Verheijen, 27 (c. 3.1.1): “Veni Carthaginem, et circumstrepebat me undique sartago flagitiosorum amorum. Nondum amabam et amare amabam et secretiore indigentia oderam me minus indigentem. Quaerebam quid amarem, amans amare” Wordplay is at work h ­ ere: the city Carthage as a frying pan—­sartago! 94. See the previous note. 95. Augustine observes and reflects with unmatched precision that the curricular study of Latin is closely intertwined with cultural modes of love and desire. Learning from texts prepares one for a variety of experiences and actions. 96. Julian P. Haseldine, “Friendship, Intimacy and Corporate Networking in the Twelfth ­Century: The Politics of Friendship in the Letters of Peter the Venerable,” EHR 126 (2011), 251– 80, p. 271f.: Peter the Venerable calls Henry of Blois his friend when disputes existed between them. At p. 274, he discusses friendship extensively when the bond seemed about to break in a letter to his potential secretary, Peter of Poitiers. On the so-­called amicitia iocosa (Ronald Pepin), see Gillian  R. Knight, The Correspondence Between Peter the Venerable and Bernard of Clairvaux: A Semantic and Structural Analy­sis (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2002), 16–23. 97. This variation according to recipient is also apparent in how Bernard of Clairvaux reserves dulcissimus for an exclusive group of notable p ­ eople including Honorius II and Innocent II. Julian P. Haseldine, “Affectionate Terms of Address in Twelfth-­Century Latin Epistolography: A Comparative Study of the Letters of Bernard of Clairvaux, Peter the Venerable, and Peter of Celle,” Journal of Medieval Latin 23 (2013), 201–54, p. 225. 98. See the examples in Haseldine, “Friendship,” 258 and 260. Similar examples from the letters of Peter of Celle can be found in Haseldine, “Understanding.” For a comparative study of this variance, see Haseldine, “Affectionate Terms.” 99. The language used in letters was prob­ably far removed from their everyday speech used to express unfiltered emotions. Haseldine, “Affectionate Terms,” 204.

246

Notes to Pages 39–40

100. Virgil, Eclogae, ed. H. E. Gould (London: Macmillan, 1967), 22 (Eclogue V, 47–51). On the origin and reception of the oxymoron saevus amor, see the commentary in Lygdamus, Corpus Tibullianum III.1–6: Lygdami elegiarum liber, ed. Fernando Navarro Antolin (Leiden: Brill, 1996), 367f. On the adoption by Propertius, see Peter J. Connor, “Saevitia amoris: Propertius 1.1,” Classical Philology 67 (1972), 51–54. See also Ovid’s love elegies: “But for me—­let cruel love break off my lazy slumbers, and may I not be the only burden of my bed! Let my powers be wasted by love, and no one say me nay—if one suffices, well; if not, then two!” Ovid, Amores, trans. Grant Showerman (London: Loeb, 1914), 413 (II.X.19–22). 101. Jaeger, Love. For a critique, see Rüdiger Schnell, “Genealogie der höfischen Liebe: Ein kulturwissenschaftlicher Entwurf in kritischer Sicht,” Zeitschrift für deutsche Philologie 122 (2003), 101–17. 102. Klaus van Eickels, Vom inszenierten Konsens zum systematisierten Konflikt: Die englisch-­französischen Beziehungen und ihre Wahrnehmung an der Wende vom Hoch-­zum Spätmittelalter (Stuttgart: Thorbecke, 2002), 19–29. 103. Engen, “The Twelfth ­C entury,” 17f.; Melve, “Revolt”; Alex J. Novikoff, “The Re­nais­ sance of the Twelfth ­C entury Before Haskins,” Haskins Society Journal: Studies in Medieval History 16 (2005), 104–16; Colish, Remapping; Colish, “Haskins’s ‘Re­nais­sance’ ”; Ferguson, Re­ nais­sance. On what we w ­ ill call the “humanistic discourse,” see Chapter 8 below. 104. Ulrich Köpf, “Das Thema der Freundschaft im abendländischen Mönchtum bis zum 12. Jahrhundert,” in Freundschaft: Motive und Bedeutungen, ed. Sibylle Appuhn-­Radtke and Esther Pia Wipfler (Munich: Zentralinstitut für Kunstgeschichte, 2006), 25–44. A study of monastic Consuetudines fifteen years e­ arlier produced the same results. Lahaye-­Geusen, Opfer, 360–66. The root cause ­here is the risk that monastic amicitia ­will become erotic and, therefore, dangerous. Friendship, as we encountered it with Aelred of Rievalx, was “a source of terror for monastic rule-­makers” (p. 361). 105. Aelred of Rievaulx, Opera omnia, vol. 1: Opera ascetica, ed. Anselm Hoste and Charles H. Talbot, CCCM 1 (Turnhout: Brepols, 1971), 294.185 (De spiritali amicitia 1.32): “Non enim amicos solum, sed et inimicos sinu dilectionis excipere, caritatis lege compellimur. Amicos autem eos solos dicimus, quibus cor nostrum, et quidquid in illo est, committere non formidamus.” 106. Köpf, “Thema,” 30–32. 107. Ivan D. Illich, In the Vineyard of the Text: A Commentary to Hugh’s Didascalicon (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1993), 26. 108. Jürgen Link, “Literaturanalyse als Interdiskursanalyse: Am Beispiel des Ursprungs literarischer Symbolik in der Kollektivsymbolik,” in Diskurstheorien und Literaturwissenschaft, ed. Jürgen Fohrmann and Harro Müller (Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, 1988), 284–306. 109. Aelred of Rievaulx, Opera omnia 1, 317.17 (De spiritali amicitia 3.2): “Fons et origo amicitiae amor est, nam amor sine amicitia esse potest, amicitia sine amore numquam.” 110. Günter Burkart and Cornelia Koppetsch, “Geschlecht und Liebe: Überlegungen zu einer Soziologie des Paares,” in Geschlechtersoziologie, ed. Bettina Heintz (Opladen: Westdeutscher Verlag, 2001), 431–53. See, for example, the discussion on p. 432 of “love and dyadic intimacy” and on p.  435 of “sexual intimacy.” At p.  434, n. 5, however, the authors note that “bodies, emotions, sexuality, and intimacy” do not play any role in f­ amily sociology. 111. Luhmann, Love as Passion, 10. 112. Harry Blatterer, “Friendship and the Therapeutic Persuasion: Intimacy as Normative Freedom,” in Soziologie des Privaten, ed. Kornelia Hahn and Cornelia Koppetsch (Wiesbaden: Springer VS-­Verlag, 2011), 253–74. 113. “Intimacy” has also been used with purely negative connotation as a marker for the loss of the public po­liti­cal sphere. Richard Sennett used it in this sense in a pamphlet written against the “tyranny of intimacy” in 1974, a half generation before the internet was widely used. Richard Sennett, The Fall of Public Man (New York: Knopf, 1977).



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114. Fulbert of Chartres, Letters, 174 (Ep. 95); Die ältere Wormser Briefsammlung, ed. Walther Bulst, MGH Briefe d. dt. Kaiserzeit 3 (Weimar: Böhlau, 1949), 102 (Ep. 60); Münster-Swendsen, “Model”; Münster-Swendsen, “Virtuosity.” An anonymous letter writer soon a­ fter 1146 admitted that he always feared an e­ nemy would corrupt his group and destroy it. Colker, ed., Analecta Dublinensia, 97 (c. 21). See also the articles by Andreas Kraß and ­others in Eva Eßlinger, ed., Die Figur des Dritten: Ein kulturwissenschaftliches Paradigma (Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, 2010). 115. Die Tegernseer Briefsammlung des 12. Jahrhunderts, ed. Helmut Plechl and Werner Bergmann, MGH BdK 8 (Hanover: Hahnsche Buchhandlung, 2002), 354.29 (Appendix, 7). On the sources and reception of this letter, see the introduction to the edition beginning at p. xv and also: Peter Dronke, “­Women’s Love Letters from Tegernsee,” in Medieval Letters: Between Fiction and Document, ed. Christian Høgel and Elisabetta Bartoli (Turnhout: Brepols, 2015), 215–45. 116. Tegernseer Briefsammlung, ed. Plechl and Bergmann, 352.36f. (Appendix, 6). 117. Tegernseer Briefsammlung, ed. Plechl and Bergmann, 347.20 (Appendix, 2): “Cave diligentius, ne tercius interveniat oculus”; 348.31 (Appendix, 3). 118. Tegernseer Briefsammlung, ed. Plechl and Bergmann, 345.28 (Appendix, 1). 119. Tegernseer Briefsammlung, ed. Plechl and Bergmann, 347.19 (Appendix, 2).

Chapter 3 1. Arno Borst uncovered the most notable exception to this rule during the last de­cades of his life: the work of early medieval scholars on computus, or calculation. See Borst, ed., Schriften, 1.1–130 especially. On the situation in the ninth c­ entury, see Schieffer, Arbeit. 2. If a mouse could make a monastic scribe turn white with rage, as the illustration in a manuscript of Augustine’s works from around 1140 suggests, what about daily interactions with confratres? Zielinski, “Domschulen,” 177. 3. Randall Collins, The Sociology of Philosophies: A Global Theory of Intellectual Change, 4th ed. (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 2002), 7. 4. See chapter 1 in Collins, Sociology. 5. Collins, Sociology, 83; Andreas Kraß, “Der Rivale,” in Die Figur, ed. Eßlinger, 225–37, p. 225. See also Leopold von Wiese, System der Allgemeinen Soziologie als Lehre von den sozialen Prozessen und den sozialen Gebilden der Menschen (Beziehungslehre), 3rd ed. (Berlin: Duncker & Humblot, 1955), v. 6. Gunzo and Anselm of Besate, Epistola ad Augienses, Rhetorimachia, ed. Karl Manitius, MGH QQ zur Geistesgesch. 2 (Weimar: Böhlau, 1958), 104, on his hermitage. For an attempt to classify this text in the history of rhetorical teaching, see Beth S. Bennett, “Teaching Classical Rhe­toric in Practice: Evidence from Anselm de Besate,” in The Classics in the Medieval and Re­ nais­sance Classroom: The Role of Ancient Texts in the Arts Curriculum as Revealed by Surviving Manuscripts and Early Printed Books, ed. Juanita Feros Ruys, John O. Ward, and Melanie Heyworth (Turnhout: Brepols, 2013), 61–79. On the identification of Anselm with the chancellery notary “Henricus C.,” see Carl Erdmann, Forschungen zur politischen Ideenwelt des Frühmittelalters, ed. Friedrich Baethgen (Berlin: Akademie, 1951), 119–24; Wolfgang Huschner, Transalpine Kommunikation im Mittelalter: Diplomatische, kulturelle und politische Wechselwirkungen zwischen Italien und dem nordalpinen Reich (9.–11. Jahrhundert), MGH Schriften 52.1 (Hanover: Hahnsche Buchhandlung, 2003), 845–52, with a final endorsement at p. 975. Hartmut Hoffmann challenged this association, seeing “Henrich C.” as a Bamberger rather than an Italian. Regardless, scholars agree that Anselm was affiliated with the royal court. 7. Recueil des Historiens des Gaules et de la France, Nouvelle Édition, ed. Léopold Delisle, 24 vols. (Paris: Imprimerie Nationale, 1869–1904), 1.536f. His story overlaps with the Orléans trial of 1022, which has played an impor­tant role in the early history of the persecution of heretics. Heinrich Fichtenau, Ketzer und Professoren: Häresie und Vernunftglaube im Hochmittelalter (Munich: C. H. Beck, 1992); Dominique Barthélemy, “Les hérétiques de l’an mil.” L’Histoire 156

248

Notes to Pages 46–49

(1992), 22–31; Laurent Jégou, L’évêque, juge de paix: L’autorité épiscopale et le règlement des conflits entre Loire et Elbe (milieu VIIIe–­milieu XIe siècle) (Turnhout: Brepols, 2011), 389f. 8. Louis Halphen, “Un pedagogue,” in Louis Halphen, A travers l’histoire du Moyen Age (Paris: Presses Universitaires de France, 1950), 277–85. 9. On Ademar’s depiction of Benedict as a braggart, see Adémar de Chabannes, Epistola de apostolatu sancti Martialis, PL 141.87–112. col. 107B. 10. Miracula sancti Liutwini, ed. Heinrich Volbert Sauerland, MGH SS 15.2 (Hanover: Hahnsche Buchhandlung, 1888), 1261–68, p. 1266 (c. 18). 11. Guibert of Nogent, Autobiographie, ed. Labande, 26 (c. 1.4): “Erat paulo ante id temporis, et adhuc partim sub meo tempore, tanta grammaticorum charitas, ut in oppidis prope nullus, in urbibus vix aliquis reperiri potuisset; et quos inveniri contigerat, eorum scientia tenuis erat, nec etiam moderni temporis clericulis vagantibus comparari poterat.” Translation: Archambault, Monk’s Confession, 14–15. The requirement that a priest must, alongside his pastoral duties, teach at least one boy at a time how to read and prepare him for work as a lector was instituted long before Guibert: Sebastian Scholz, “Bemerkungen zur Bildungsentwicklung im frühen Mittelalter: Zusammenfassung,” in Karolingische Klöster, ed. Becker, Licht, and Weinfurter, 275–89, p. 277. 12. Milo Crispin, Vita beati Lanfranci archiepiscopi Cantuariensis, PL 150.19–58. col. 29B– 31B; Chronicon Beccensis Abbatiae, PL 150.639–90. col. 642B. 13. So too did Ivo of Chartres write appreciatively to Master Manegold that post multos circuitus he had fi­nally taken on himself the light burden of Christ. Ivo of Chartres, Correspondance, vol. 1, ed. Jean Leclercq (Paris: Les Belles Lettres, 1949), 156 (Ep. 38). 14. On the prevalence of this biographical complaint, see Jean de Montclos, Lanfranc et Bérenger: La controverse eucharistique du XIe siècle (Louvain: Spicilegium Sacrum Lovaniense, 1971), 546f. Even Ambrose could hardly find any time to read once he became bishop of Milan, so Augustine rec­ords: Augustine, Confessiones, ed. Verheijen, 86 (c. 6.18.14). 15. The following references to Anselm’s Rhetorimachia (Rhet.) come from Manitius’s edition cited above. 16. For his list of disciplines and studies, see Rhet. 81. See also Bennett, “Teaching”; Erdmann, Forschungen, 119–24; Ernst Dümmler, Anselm der Peripatetiker: Nebst anderen Beiträgen zur Literaturgeschichte Italiens im elften Jahrhundert (Halle: Waisenhauses, 1872). 17. On Drogo, see Chronicon Sancti Huberti Andaginensis, ed. Ludwig Bethmann and Wilhelm Wattenbach, MGH SS 8.565–630 (Hanover: Hahnsche Buchhandlung, 1848), 573. Lambert of St. Hubert was sent to Lombardy, where he “philosophized for a while with Drogo of Parma” (et apud Drogonem Parmensem aliquandiu philosophatus). 18. Rhet. 181.4. See also Peter Stotz, Handbuch zur Lateinischen Sprache des Mittelalters, vol. 4: Formenlehre, Syntax und Stilistik (Munich: C. H. Beck, 1998), 309. 19. Richard of Poitiers, Chronicon, ed. Georg Waitz, MGH SS 26 (Hanover: Hahnsche Buchhandlung, 1882), 74–82, p. 78; Wilfried Hartmann, “Manegold von Lautenbach und die Anfänge der Frühscholastik,” Deutsches Archiv für Erforschung des Mittelalters 26 (1970), 47–149. The quote from Wolfger of Prüfening appears on p. 50. See also Horst Fuhrmann, “Zur Biographie des Manegold von Lautenbach,” in Horst Fuhrmann, Papst Gregor VII. und das Zeitalter der Reform: Annäherungen an eine europäische Wende, Ausgewählte Aufsätze, ed. Martina Hartmann, MGH Schriften 72 (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 2016), 267–90. The pos­si­ble connection between the ­earlier, free-­roaming teacher Manegold and the ­later and better documented canon of Lautenbach, Rottenbuch, and Marbach does not concern us. Serious doubts are registered in Loris Sturlese, Die deutsche Philosophie im Mittelalter: Von Bonifatius bis zu Albert dem Großen (748– 1280) (Munich: C. H. Beck, 1993), 78f. 20. For the relevant letter, see Codex Udalrici, ed. Klaus Naß, 2 vols., MGH BdK 10.1–2 (Wies­ baden: Harrassowitz, 2017), 378f., n. 6.



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21. Peter Damian, Sermones, ed. Giovanni Lucchesi, CCCM 57 (Turnhout: Brepols, 1983), 34 (Sermo 6.2); cf. Peter Damian, Opusculum 45 de sancta simplicitate scientiae inflanti anteponenda, PL 145.695–706. Peter often uses sexual meta­phors for the purpose of criticizing the pre­ sent—­perhaps a symptom of ascetic overexertion? Gerd Tellenbach, The Church in Western Eu­rope from the Tenth to the Early Twelfth ­Century, trans. Timothy Reuter (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993), 164, n. 103. 22. The canon Manegold, for example, pre­sents the doctrine of antipodes as an example of false knowledge. Manegold of Lautenbach, Liber contra Wolfelmum, ed. Wilfried Hartmann, MGH QQ zur Geistesgesch. 8 (Weimar: Böhlau, 1972), 51f. (c. 4). See also the editorial commentary on p. 18f. 23. Peter Damian is said to have claimed that philosophy is the handmaid of theology. The clearest expression of this idea is found in Letter 119: “artis humanae peritia, si quando tractandis sacris eloquiis adhibetur, non debet ius magisterii sibimet arroganter arripere, sed velut ancilla dominae quodam famulatus obsequio subservire.” Peter Damian, Briefe, ed. Kurt Reindel, MGH BdK 4.1–4 (Munich: MGH, 1983–93), 3.354. 24. Hugh of St. Victor, Didascalicon de studio legendi, ed. Thilo Offergeld (Freiburg im Breisgau: Herder, 1997), 186 (c. 2.17). 25. For both, see Manegold, Liber contra Wolfelmum, ed. Hartmann, 54–57 (c. 6) on how Arius, Mani, and Origen ­were misled by phi­los­o­phers, and from p. 98 on opposition to the pope. On Berengar and his identification as the dialectician who triggered the anti-­d ialectical movement, see Toivo J. Holopainen, Dialectic and Theology in the Eleventh C ­ entury (Leiden: Brill, 1996), 77f. 26. Some examples: Manegold of Lautenbach, Liber contra Wolfelmum, trans. Robert Ziomkowski (Leuven: Peeters, 2002), 2f. See also Ian Stuart Robinson, “The Bible in the Investiture Controversy: The South German Gregorian Circle,” in The Bible in the Medieval World: Essays in Memory of Beryl Smalley, ed. Katherine J. Walsh and Diana S. Wood (Oxford: Blackwell, 1985), 61–84. On why it is too reductionist to see Manegold as an anti-­d ialectician, see Irène Caiazzo, “Manegold, modernorum magister magistrorum,” in Arts du langage et théologie aux confins des XIe et XIIe siècle: Textes, maîtres, débats, ed. Irène Rosier-­Catach (Turnhout: Brepols, 2011), 317– 45, p. 321. In reference to Anselm of Canterbury, see Martin M. Tweedale, “Logic (i): From the Late Eleventh C ­ entury to the Time of Abelard,” in A History of Twelfth C ­ entury Western Philosophy, ed. Peter Dronke (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1988), 196–226, pp. 205–10. 27. Rüdiger Arnzen et al., “Philosophische Kommentare im Mittelalter: Zugänge und Orientierungen,” Allgemeine Zeitschrift für Philosophie 32 (2007), 157–77, 259–90; 33 (2008), 31–57, p. 261. 28. Sigebert of Gembloux, Cata­logus de viris illustribus, ed. Robert Witte (Frankfurt am Main: Peter Lang, 1974), 97 (c. 156): “Lanfrancus, dialecticus et Cantuariorum archiepiscopus, Paulum apostolum exposuit et, ubicumque locorum opportunitas occurrit, secundum leges dialectice proponit, assumit, concludit.” On this genre in the early and High M ­ iddle Ages and the impor­tant role of Sigebert, see Mary A. Rouse and Richard Hunter Rouse, “Bibliography Before Print: The Medieval De viris illustribus,” in Au­then­tic Witnesses: Approaches to Medieval Texts and Manuscripts, ed. Mary A. Rouse (Notre Dame, Ind.: University of Notre Dame Press, 1991), 469–94, pp.  482–84; Rudolf Blum, “Die Literaturverzeichnung im Altertum und Mittelalter: Versuch einer Geschichte der Biobibliographie von den Anfängen bis zum Beginn der Neuzeit,” Archiv für Geschichte des Buchwesens 24 (1983), cols. 1–256. H ­ ere, cols. 137–59. 29. Hartmann, “Manegold”; Wilfried Hartmann, “Rhetorik und Dialektik in der Streit­ schriftenliteratur des 11.–12. Jahrhunderts,” in Dialektik und Rhetorik im früheren und hohen Mittelalter: Rezeption, Überlieferung und gesellschaftliche Wirkung antiker Gelehrsamkeit vornehmlich im 9. und 12. Jahrhundert, ed. Johannes Fried (Munich: Oldenbourg, 1997), 73– 95; Holopainen, Dialectic; Manegold, Liber contra Wolfelmum, trans. Ziomkowski.

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30. Peter Damian, Briefe, 3.341–84 (Ep. 119). See p. 343, n. 6: apparently Jerome claimed it was not pos­si­ble in a letter that stimulated discussion at Montecassino. 31. The proposition, which he knew from the Pseudo-­Dionysianian De divinis nominibus, can be found at Peter Damian, Briefe, 3.365. On the context, see Ep. 117 and following. Helpful for Ep. 119, also known as the treatise De divina omnipotentia, is the older edition, especially chapter  4 of the introduction (La dialectique et la parole sacrée): Peter Damian, Lettre sur la toute-­puissance divine, ed. André Cantin, SC 191 (Paris: Editions du Cerf, 1972). On the philosophical dimension of the text, see Holopainen, Dialectic, 6–43. On the theological, see Irven Michael Res­nick, Divine Power and Possibility in St.  Peter Damian’s De divina omnipotentia (Leiden: Brill, 1992). 32. Peter Damian, Briefe, 3.369–72 (Ep. 119). The editorial commentary shows that Peter searched Augustine’s De civitate dei, Pliny’s Natu­ral History, and possibly the Mirabilia urbis Romae for cases of unexplained natu­ral phenomena. 33. Manegold, Liber contra Wolfelmum, ed. Hartmann, 49–51. The argument was very old, having been used against pagan philosophy. Augustine, Confessiones, ed. Verheijen, 78 (6.7.20). Some reasoned that the multitude of philosophical voices spoke volumes in itself, for if they had been divinely inspired, they would have reached some agreement on their positions: Radulfus Ardens, Homiliae, PL 155.1299–2118. col. 1390D (c. 1.23). 34. Of the arts disciplines, Lanfranc relied most heavi­ly on logic. According to a recent study, it is difficult to tell if he utilized the Logica vetus, the standard texts of his day. Ann Collins, Teacher in Faith and Virtue: Lanfranc of Bec’s Commentary on Saint Paul (Leiden: Brill, 2007), 108–15. 35. Josef Anton Endres, “Die Dialektiker und ihre Gegner im 11. Jahrhundert,” Philosophisches Jahrbuch 19 (1906), 20–33. Endres speaks of the “wandering disciplinarian teachers” (“Wander-­und Winkellehrer”) and suggests that their number in the eleventh ­century should not be regarded as small just “­because many direct historical documents are lacking for vari­ous and easily understandable reasons” (p. 25). See also Josef Anton Endres, “Lanfrank’s Verhältniß zur Dialektik,” Der Katholik: Zeitschrift für katholische Wissenschaft und kirchliches Leben, Third Series 25 (1902), 215–31; Josef Anton Endres, Petrus Damiani und die weltliche Wissenschaft (Münster: Aschendorff, 1910); Josef Anton Endres, “Studien zur Geschichte der Frühscholastik,” Philosophisches Jahrbuch 26 (1913), 85–93. 36. The most prominent case is the early history of guilds, which can be deduced only by studying the hostilities they met. Otto Gerhard Oexle, “Peace Through Conspiracy,” in Ordering Medieval Society: Perspectives on Intellectual and Practical Modes of Shaping Social Relations, ed. Bernhard Jussen (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2001), 285–322; Gerhard Dilcher, Bürgerrecht und Stadtverfassung im europäischen Mittelalter (Cologne: Böhlau, 1996); Stephen C. Ferruolo, The Origins of the University: The Schools of Paris and Their Critics, 1100– 1215 (Stanford, Calif.: Stanford University Press, 1985). 37. On their new and dif­fer­ent understanding of “true” and “false,” see Chapter 4. 38. Williram of Ebersberg, Expositio in Cantica Canticorum, ed. Erminnie Hollis Bartelemez (Philadelphia: American Philosophical Society, 1967), 1. Fortunately, Lanfranc chose the proper path a­ fter his ­career as a teacher. 39. Manegold, Liber contra Wolfelmum, ed. Hartmann, 62 (c. 9). 40. On Goswin’s biography, see Goswin of Mainz, Apologiae duae: Gozechini epistola ad Walcherum, Burchardi, ut videtur, abbatis Bellevallis apologia de barbis, ed. Robert B. C. Huygens and Giles Constable, CCCM 62 (Turnhout: Brepols, 1985), 4–6. The letter is cited often in Jaeger, Envy, 221–26, and is translated at pp. 349–75. Jaeger sees it as a key witness to the positive, holistic nature of teaching and education in the “charismatic” era. We might very well view this combination of student-­teacher intimacy, emotional exaggeration, and corporal pedagogy in light of the many school, college, and clerical scandals—­t he terrible global pattern of abuse from



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Boston to the Odenwald—of the recent past. Some of Goswin’s students may well have viewed the all-­encompassing, holistic quality of their educational institutions with horror. 41. See the more precise chronology at Jaeger, Envy, 221. 42. Goswin, Apologiae, ed. Huygens and Constable, 210. Subsequent citations of the letter (Goz.) follow the page numbers of the Huygens and Constable edition. 43. See the salutation at Goz. 1. 44. Guitmund of Aversa, De corporis et sanguinis Christi veritate in eucharistia libri tres, PL 149.1427–94. col. 1428A (c. 1). 45. See the discussion of Peter Damian e­ arlier in this chapter. 46. As seen in the research tradition initiated by Otto Gierke, Das deutsche Genossenschaftsrecht, vol. 1: Rechtsgeschichte der deutschen Genossenschaft (Berlin: Weidmann, 1868). The lack of German roots provided ­little indication that the phenomenon was in any way “German.” On the guild forms, see the work of Otto Gerhard Oexle above. See also Bernhard Jussen, “Erforschung des Mittelalters als Erforschung von Gruppen: Über einen Perspektivenwechsel in der deutschen Mediävistik,” Sozialwissenschaftliche Informationen 21 (1992), 202–9; Richard  C. Trexler, ed., Persons in Groups: Social Be­hav­ior as Identity Formation in Medieval and Re­nais­ sance Eu­rope (Binghamton: Medieval & Re­nais­sance Texts & Studies, 1985); Christina Lutter, “Social Groups, Personal Relations, and the Making of Communities in Medieval vita monastica,” in Making Sense as a Cultural Practice: Historical Perspectives, ed. Jörg Rogge (Bielefeld: Transcript, 2013), 45–61. 47. Foundational and highly nuanced was Tellenbach, Church. Older (and some ­later) accounts had employed a heroic narrative of a reform movement—­led mainly by the Cluniacs—­ courageously intervening against clerical and monastic decline. See, for example Werner Goez, Kirchenreform und Investiturstreit 910–1122 (Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 2000). Tellenbach rendered a g­ reat ser­v ice by refuting this view regardless of how it lent itself to epic historical accounts. It was not the depraved lifestyle of clerics and monks, but rather changes in norms and thinking, that led to reform. Nor can the products of this reform, the differentiation of lifestyles, be assigned to a ­simple black-­a nd-­white scheme of good and bad. Despite their dif­fer­ent priorities, they ­were guided by common concerns about proper Christian life. 48. Alfred Haverkamp, “Leben in Gemeinschaften: Alte und neue Formen im 12. Jahrhundert,” in Aufbruch, Wandel, Erneuerung: Beiträge zur “Re­nais­sance” des 12. Jahrhunderts, ed. Georg Wieland (Stuttgart: Frommann-­Holzboog, 1995), 11–44. In general, see also Alfred Haverkamp, “Neue Formen von Bindung und Ausgrenzung: Konzepte und Gestaltungen von Gemeinschaften an der Wende zum 12. Jahrhundert,” in Alfred Haverkamp, Neue Forschungen zur mittelalterlichen Geschichte (2000–2011), ed. Christoph Cluse and Jörg Müller (Hanover: Hahnsche Buchhandlung, 2012), 149–82. 49. See Tellenbach, Church, 340. On the influences of monasticism on this pro­cess, see Yves Marie-­Joseph Congar, Jalons pour une théologie du laïcat, 2nd ed. (Paris: Éditions du Cerf, 1954). On the division of the clergy and laity, see Gilles Gérard Meersseman, Ordo Fraternitatis: Confraternite e pietà dei laici nel medioevo, 3 vols. (Rome: Herder, 1977), 1.232–45, on the “Ecclesia docente e Ecclesia discente,” p. 233. 50. Bernold of Constance’s chronicle for the year 1091: Berthold of Reichenau und Bernold of Constance, Die Chroniken Bertholds von Reichenau und Bernolds von Konstanz 1054–1100, ed. Ian Stuart Robinson (Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 2002), 382–85. 51. Such is said in the Deeds of the Bishops of Liège of peasants who seemed to have joined a group of heretics. Anselm of Liège, Gesta episcoporum Leodiensium, ed. Rudolf Koepke, MGH SS 7.190–234 (Hanover: Hahnsche Buchhandlung, 1846), 226.41. 52. See more l­ ater in this chapter. 53. Alpert of Metz, De diversitate temporum et fragmentum de Deoderico primo episcopo Mettensi, ed. Hans van Rij and Anna Sapir Abulafia (Amsterdam: Verloren, 1980), 80 (c. 2.20);

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Juke Dijkstra, “Das Handelszentrum Tiel im 10. bis 12. Jahrhundert,” in Europa im 10. Jahrhundert: Archäologie einer Aufbruchszeit, ed. Joachim Henning (Mainz: Von Zabern, 2002), 195–208. 54. Marcel Mauss, The Gift: Forms and Functions of Exchange in Archaic Socie­ties (London: Cohen & West, 1954), 36, 76–78. 55. The material on them, which has been only partially pro­cessed, can be found in Meersseman, Ordo, vol. 1. On Valenciennes, see Henri Caffiaux, “Mémoire sur La charte de La frairie de la halle basse de Valenciennes (XIe et XIIe siècles),” Mémoires de la Société Nationale des Antiquaires de France 38 (1877), 1–41. On Saint-­Omer: Georges Espinas and Henri Pirenne, “Les coutumes de la gilde marchande de Saint-­Omer,” Le Moyen Âge 14 (1901), 189–96. On the history and relevance of the guilds, see also Oexle, “Peace.” 56. Meersseman, Ordo, 1.3–34. On the terminology around forms of social ­u nion, see Pierre Michaud-­Quantin, Universitas: Expressions du mouvement communautaire dans le Moyen-­Âge latin (Paris: Vrin, 1970). 57. Max Weber, Die Stadt, ed. Wilfried Nippel (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1999). On ­t hese spaces, see Albert Vermeesch, Essai sur les origines et la signification de la commune dans le nord de la France (XIe et XIIe siècles) (Heule: UGA, 1966). 58. Tellenbach, Church, 264. 59. As representative of the age, see Michael Borgolte, Europa entdeckt seine Vielfalt, 1050– 1250 (Stuttgart: Ulmer, 2002). 60. In the Weberian tradition, see prominently Harold J. Berman, Law and Revolution: The Formation of the Western ­Legal Tradition (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1983). 61. Th ­ ese trends are emphasized in basically all works that seek to summarize social developments of the High ­M iddle Ages. For a recent collaborative effort, see Thomas F. X. Noble and John van Engen, eds., Eu­ro­pean Transformations: The Long Twelfth ­Century (Notre Dame, Ind.: University of Notre Dame Press, 2012). See also the overviews in Hagen Keller, “Die Ver­ antwortung des Einzelnen und die Ordnung der Gemeinschaft: Zum Wandel gesellschaftlicher Werte im 12. Jahrhundert,” Frühmittelalterliche Studien 40 (2006), 183–97; Hagen Keller, “Ordnungsvorstellungen, Erfahrungshorizonte und Welterfassung im kulturellen Wandel des 12./13. Jahrhunderts,” in Ordnungskonfigurationen im hohen Mittelalter, ed. Bernd Schneidmüller and Stefan Weinfurter (Ostfildern: Thorbecke, 2006), 257–78; Frank Rexroth, “Transformationen des Rituellen: Überlegungen zur ‘Disambiguierung’ symbolischer Kommunikation während des langen 12. Jahrhunderts,” in Alles nur symbolisch? Bilanz und Perspektiven der Erforschung symbolischer Kommunikation, ed. Barbara Stollberg-­R ilinger, Tim Neu, and Christina Brauner (Cologne: Böhlau, 2013), 69–92. 62. Tellenbach, Church, 66. See also Michael Borgolte, Christen, Juden, Muselmanen: Die Erben der Antike und der Aufstieg des Abendlandes 300 bis 1400 n. Chr. (Munich: Siedler, 2006), 441–44. 63. Borgolte, Christen, 38. On excommunication, see Katharina Ulrike Mersch, Missachtung, Anerkennung und Kreativität: Exkommunizierte Laien im 13. Jahrhundert (Osterfildern: Thorbecke, 2018). 64. Tellenbach, Church, 145, n. 1. 65. Tellenbach, Church, 309. 66. Richard W. Southern, Scholastic Humanism and the Unification of Eu­rope, 2 vols. (Oxford: Blackwell, 1995–2001), 1.141–45. On current research on written culture, see Leidulf Melve, Inventing the Public Sphere: The Public Debate during the Investiture Contest, c. 1030–1122, 2 vols. (Leiden: Brill, 2007). Melve improves on e­ arlier attempts to chart the emergence of a public po­ liti­cal sphere and the corresponding substrate that sustained it. 67. For a case study, see Frank Rexroth, “Fehltritte: Otto von Freising, der Prozess gegen Gilbert von Poitiers und die Kontingenz der sozialen Kommunikation,” in Ermöglichen und



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Verhindern: Vom Umgang mit Kontingenz, ed. Markus Bernhardt, Stefan Brakensiek, and Benjamin Scheller (Frankfurt am Main: Campus, 2016), 83–115. 68. On Bernold, see Oliver Münsch, “Neues zu Bernold von Konstanz,” ZRG KA 92 (2006), 207–23. See pp. 218–23 for a new edition of the De vitanda excommunicatorum communione. 69. André Gouron, “Non dixit: Ego sum consuetudo,” ZRG KA 74 (1988), 133–40. As noted in the previous chapter, Ivo of Chartres attributes this saying to Gregory VII, instead of Urban II. Ladner, Letters, 669–79. The terms veritas, usus, and consuetudo ­were often used in the context of correcting scriptural texts up to the thirteenth c­ entury. Cornelia Linde, How to Correct the Sacra Scriptura? Textual Criticism of the Latin Bible Between the Twelfth and Fifteenth ­Century (Oxford: Society for the Study of Medieval Languages and Lit­er­a­ture, 2012), 201–16. Many works by Olga Weijers deal with the new culture of discourse and are synthesized in Olga Weijers, In Search of the Truth: A History of Disputation Techniques from Antiquity to Early Modern Times (Turnhout: Brepols, 2013). See also Novikoff, Culture. On premodern science as a field in the Bourdieuian sense, see Marian Füssel and Ingo Trüter, “Das gelehrte Feld der Vormoderne: Möglichkeiten und Grenzen von Feldanalysen in der Geschichtswissenschaft,” in Feldanalyse als Forschungsprogramm, vol. 1: Der programmatische Kern, ed. Stefan Bernhard and Christian Schmidt-­Wellenburg (Wiesbaden: Springer, 2012), 321–44. 70. Charles de Miramon, “Spiritualia et Temporalia: Naissance d’un ­couple,” ZRG KA 92 (2006), 224–87. 71. For example, Huguccio (d. 1210), as cited in Alphons Stickler, “Der Schwerterbegriff bei Huguccio,” Ephemerides iuris canonici 3 (1947), 201–42, p. 210, n. 1. Attempts to streamline and clarify the terminology can be traced back to Gregory VII, who was himself no scholar: Brigitte Szabo-­Bechstein, Libertas Ecclesiae: Ein Schlüsselbegriff des Investiturstreits und seine Vorgeschichte (Rome: Libreria Ateneo Salesiano, 1985), 138–75. 72. Gerd Tellenbach, “Papatus,” in Gerd Tellenbach, Ausgewählte Abhandlungen und Auf­ sätze, Teil 5 (Stuttgart: Hiersemann, 1996), 83–94; Yves Marie-­Joseph Congar, “Der Platz des Papsttums in der Kirchenfrömmigkeit der Reformer des 11. Jahrhunderts,” in Sentire ecclesiam: Festschrift Hugo Rahner, ed. Jean Daniélou and Herbert Vorgrimler (Freiburg im Breisgau: Herder, 1961), 196–217, pp. 211–13; Szabo-­Bechstein, Libertas. 73. Anselm of Havelberg, Dialogi, PL 188.1139–248. col. 1149A (c. 1.6): “sancta Ecclesia pertransiens per diversos status sibi invicem paulatim succedentes, usque in hodiernum diem, sicut iuventus aquilae renovatur et semper renovabitur, salvo semper sanctae Trinitatis fidei fundamento.” For other uses of the term, see Anselm of Havelberg, Anticimenon (Über die eine Kirche von Abel bis zum letzten Erwählten und von Ost bis West), trans. Hermann Josef Sieben (Münster: Aschendorff, 2010), 56 (c. 1.6, A.3). See also Gerhart B. Ladner, The Idea of Reform: Its Impact on Christian Thought and Action in the Age of the F ­ athers (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1959), 423f., n. 94; Thomas Frank and Norbert Winkler, “Einleitung,” in Renovatio et unitas, Nikolaus von Kues als Reformer: Theorie und Praxis der reformatio im 15. Jahrhundert, ed. Thomas Frank and Norbert Winkler (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2012), 9–20; Frank Rexroth, “Reformen gegen den disziplinären Eigensinn: Die Pariser Statuten von 1215 und der Konservatismus der frühen Universitätsgeschichte,” in Universität, Reform: Ein Spannungsverhältnis von langer Dauer (12.–21. Jahrhundert), ed. Martin Kintzinger, Wolfgang Eric Wagner, and Julia Crispin (Basel: Schwabe, 2018), 21–49. On the ­later tradition of the idea that “the Church needs to be constantly reformed,” see Theodor Mahlmann, “Ecclesia semper reformanda: Eine historische Aufklärung, Neue Bearbeitung,” in Hermeneutica Sacra: Studien zur Auslegung der Heiligen Schrift im 16. und 17. Jahrhundert, ed. Torbjörn Johansson, Robert Kolb, and Johann Anselm Steiger (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2010), 381–442. 74. Stefan Schima, “Das Papstschisma: Eine Häresie? Kirchenrechtshistorische Erwägungen,” in Der Verlust der Eindeutigkeit: Zur Krise päpstlicher Autorität im Kampf um die Cathedra Petri, ed. Harald Müller (Berlin: De Gruyter-­Oldenbourg, 2017), 55–75.

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Notes to Pages 61–64

75. Gerd Tellenbach, “Der Sturz des Abtes Pontius von Cluny und seine geschichtliche Bedeutung,” in Gerd Tellenbach, Ausgewählte Abhandlungen und Aufsätze, Teil 3 (Stuttgart: Hiersemann, 1988), 1024–66. 76. Guibert of Nogent, Autobiographie, ed. Labande, 46 (c. 1.7). 77. Chronicon Sancti Andreae Castri Cameracesii, ed. Ludwig Bethmann, MGH SS 7 (Hanover: Hahnsche Buchhandlung, 1846), 526–50, p.  540 (c. 3.3). The case of Ramihrdus, whose name survives in this garbled form, often appears in histories of heresy. Fichtenau, Ketzer und Professoren, 50; Robert I. Moore, The Formation of a Persecuting Society: Power and Deviance in Western Eu­rope, 950–1250, 2nd ed. (Malden, Mass.: Blackwell, 2007). It was also used as a test case for episcopal authority in John S. Ott, Bishops, Authority, and Community in Northwestern Eu­rope, c. 1050–1150 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2015), 83–86. 78. The case triggered local investigations in the Reims archdiocese. Das Register Gregors VII., ed. Erich Caspar, 2 vols., MGH Epp. sel. 2 (Berlin: Weidmann, 1920), 1.328 (4.20). 79. On the connection between the fall of Ramihrdus and the commune of Cambrai, see Vermeesch, Essai, 89–91; Knut Schulz, “Denn sie lieben die Freiheit so sehr . . .”: Kommunale Aufstände und Entstehung des europäischen Bürgertums im Hochmittelalter (Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1992), 56–60. 80. Guibert of Nogent, Autobiographie, ed. Labande, 350 (c. 3.9): “iam ergo eum, cujus servus erat, non norat, cui certe inter prandendum paulo ante servierat.” On the communal movement as background to the conflicts over Abelard’s teaching in 1141, see Constant J. Mews, “The Council of Sens (1141): Abelard, Bernard, and the Fear of Social Upheaval,” Speculum 77 (2002), 342–82; Dorothea Weltecke, “Der Narr spricht: Es ist kein Gott”; Atheismus, Unglauben und Glaubens­ zweifel vom 12. Jahrhundert bis zur Neuzeit (Frankfurt am Main: Campus, 2010), 118–20. 81. Dominique Iogna-­Prat, “Evrard de Breteuil et son double: Morphologie de la conversion en milieu aristocratique (v. 1070–­v. 1120),” in Guerriers et moines: Conversion et sainteté aristocratiques dans l’occident médiéval, IXe–­X IIe siècle, ed. Michel Lauwers (Antibes: APDCA, 2002), 537–57. Iogna-­Prat also emphasizes another context that ­w ill not be discussed ­here: the nexus between the founding of abbeys and the territorialization of aristocratic rulers. Both phenomena are tied up together in the foundation and promotion of abbeys such as Breteuil, Saint-­ Vanne, Coulombs, and Marmoutier (p.  552f.). But Guibert also writes like a con­temporary historian in some re­spects, integrating the communes, the growing importance of scholarship, and stories of voluntary association into his narrative. While he mostly treats social pro­cesses by giving personalized examples, a broader goal of his work is to explain the social circumstances that influenced him (and, by extension, his ­mother) to dedicate his life to a monastic ­career. 82. Writing as an old man, he seems to think that this period of growth has flattened out and ended: “Alas for t­ hese days! What the parents bestowed upon the sacred places, the sons ­either completely take away or ceaselessly demand excessive compensation for; they all lack the good w ­ ill of their ­fathers.” Guibert of Nogent, Autobiographie, ed. Labande, 74 (c. 1.11): “Iam nunc enim, proh dolor! quae hujusmodi affectione permoti, locis sacris contulere parentes, aut penitus subtrahunt, aut crebras redemptiones exigere non desinunt filii, a patrum voluntatibus usquequaque degeneres.” 83. Guibert of Nogent, Autobiographie, ed. Labande, 63–74, p. 72 (c.1.11): “His cohaesere continuo virorum feminarumque greges; omnis protinus ordo concurrit.” Translation: Archambault, Monk’s Confession, 33. 84. Anyone who immersed himself as deeply in the ­mental world of the Confessiones as Guibert did ­w ill recognize that the story is not just about Augustine’s conversion but also about his circle of friends and schoolmates. It included the stories about his “­brother of the heart” Alypius, who was baptized with his friend and teacher, about Nebridius and Verecundus, about the old man Vindicianus, and about Firminus, Simplician, Victorinus, and Pontician. Friend-



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ship and schooling w ­ ere inseparable for Augustine and drove the narrative of his conversion. Meanwhile, his close relatives (with the exception of his m ­ other, Monica, of course) mattered ­little. 85. On the background of the second case, that of Count Simon de Crépy, who gave up his lordship in 1077 in ­favor of a hermit’s life, see Herbert E. J. Cowdrey, “Count Simon of Crépy’s Monastic Conversion,” in Herbert  E.  J. Cowdrey, The Crusades and Latin Monasticism, 11th– 12th Centuries (Aldershot: Ashgate, 1999), 253–66 (nr. 11). All three cases are examined to varying degrees in Iogna-­Prat, “Evrard.” Thanks to him, we know that Everard of Breteuil and Simon de Crépy ­were closely related (p. 546 with ­tables on p. 557). The third case, that of the Reims master Bruno of Cologne, who founded the Carthusian Order, is the most famous. 86. Guibert of Nogent, Autobiographie, ed. Labande, 52–58 (c. 1.9). Register Gregors VII., ed. Caspar, 2.423f. (6.17). When the abbot of Cluny, Hugh, admitted Duke Hugh of Burgundy (r. 1075–78) into his monastery, Gregory sent him a sharp rebuke that lamented how a Christian ruler had left his subjects ­behind. 87. On the sign sent by Theobald’s canonization, see Tom Licence, Hermits and Recluses in En­glish Society, 950–1200 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011), 32. 88. On the potential influence of con­temporary courtly epic ­here, see Iogna-­Prat, “Evrard.” 89. Tertullian, Apologeticum, ed. Tobias Georges, Fontes Christiani 62 (Freiburg im Breisgau: Herder, 2015), 70 (c. 3): “Quae mulier, quam lasciva, quam festiva! Qui iuvenis, quam lusius, quam amasius!” Guibert likely knew the term from this source. 90. Guibert of Nogent, Autobiographie, ed. Labande, 54f. (1.9): “Sum, inquit, sed vos quaeso cuipiam ne dicatis, Ebrardus, Britoliensis quondam comes, qui, ut scitis, in Francia olim dives, exilio me relegans, spontaneas peccatorum meorum poenas luo.” Translation: Archambault, Monk’s Confession, 27. 91. B ­ ecause of the questionable legitimacy of their lifestyle, the new hermits took ­g reat pains to publicly separate themselves from the pseudochoritae. See Vie de Saint Étienne d’Obazine, ed. Michel Aubrun (Clermont-­Ferrand: Pascal, 1970), 52.1 (c. 1.5). 92. According to an eleventh-­century copy of the statutes of the fraternity of Sant’Appiano in Val d’Elsa. Meersseman, Ordo, 60, (c. 1.1): “In primis quando insimul congregati fuerint, eligant sibi magistrum et abbatem adeo timoratum et doctum in scripturis, ut ipsam fraternitatem optime predicare et corripere possit, et investigare eos de eorum negligentiis, qualiter se unusquisque custodire debeat.” Apparently, they ­were one and the same person since the abbas was said to be super omnes . . . ​magister, p. 62 (c. 6.17): “Ut omnes oboedientes sint suo magistro et abbati. Que ipsos predicaverit, et lex Domini precipit, custodiant.” On the proximity of the hermit groups and the scholastic scholae, see Ziolkowski, “Dilemma.” 93. On this ideal, see Charles Stephen Jaeger, “Der vollkommene Mensch in der Philosophie und Dichtung des 12. Jahrhunderts: Vorgeschichte und Nachleben eines humanistischen Mythos,” in Akademische Wissenskulturen: Praktiken des Lehrens und Forschens vom Mittelalter bis zur Moderne, ed. Martin Kintzinger and Sita Steckel (Basel: Schwabe, 2015), 225–41; Christel Meier, “Der ideale Mensch in Alans von Lille Anticlaudianus und seine Verwandlungen,” in Exemplaris imago: Ideale in Mittelalter und Früher Neuzeit, ed. Nikolaus Staubach (Frankfurt am Main: Peter Lang, 2012), 137–58. 94. Johannes von Walter, Die ersten Wanderprediger Frankreichs: Studien zur Geschichte des Mönchtums, 2 vols. (Leipzig: Dieterich, 1903–6). 95. Henrietta Leyser, Hermits and the New Monasticism: A Study of Religious Communities in Western Eu­rope 1000–1150 (London: Macmillan, 1984), 19f. (characteristically): “unlike traditional hermits the new hermits both expected and welcomed companions: solitude did not mean for them to be without the com­pany of fellow religious but to be apart from secular society, from ‘the bustle of everyday existence,’ not to be involved in litigation, in buying and selling, not to live ‘where the shouts of young men and the singing of girls could be heard.’ ” Central to

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the following interpretation are the works of Gert Melville on the new eremitism such as ­t hose gathered in the collection of essays (henceforth treated as a monograph): Gert Melville, Frommer Eifer und methodischer Betrieb: Beiträge zum mittelalterlichen Mönchtum, ed. Cristina Andenna and Mirko Breitenstein (Cologne: Böhlau, 2014). Research on the new eremitism has shown that it was a very widely known phenomenon. For a focus on the interactions between local hermits and their bishops in northern France, see Ott, Bishops, 80f. Twenty cases are reported in the diocese of Cambrai alone between 1075 and 1125 while additional hermits prob­ably went unreported or moved to other areas a­ fter beginning t­ here. For a report on the situation in France and Italy around the turn of the millennium, see André Vauchez, ed., Ermites de France et d’Italie, XIe–­XVe siècle (Rome: École française, 2003). 96. Licence, Hermits. On the completely dif­fer­ent social habits of the anchorites, see Mari Hughes-­Edwards, Reading Medieval Anchoritism: Ideology and Spiritual Practices (Cardiff: University of Wales Press, 2012), 41–56. On “anchoritic enclosure” as social death, see pp. 35–38. On the goal of moriendo seculo et vivendo Deo, see Liz Herbert McAvoy, Medieval Anchoritisms: Gender, Space and the Solitary Life (Woodbridge: Brewer, 2011). 97. Jean Leclercq, “Épilogue,” in L’eremitismo in occidente nei secoli XI e XII: Atti della seconda Settimana internazionale di studio Mendola, 30 agosto—6 settembre 1962 (Milan: Vita e Pensiero, 1965), 593–95, p. 594: “Finalement, l’érémitisme exerce une influence, directe ou indirecte, sur toutes les manifestations de la vie spirituelle, voire en bien des domaines de la vie de l’Eglise. On avait parfois l’impression, en vous écoutant, qu’aux XIe et XIIe siècles, ‘tout est érémitisme.’ ” See also Leyser, Hermits, 18. 98. Melville, Eifer, 38. 99. This trait characterized not only the new hermits and the learned scholae but also con­ temporary heretic groups. On the entourage of the heretical itinerant preacher Tanchelm, see the complaint of the Utrecht cathedral chapter from 1112 in Corpus documentorum inquisitionis haereticae pravitatis Neerlandicae, vol. 1, ed. Paul Frédéricq (Ghent: Vuylsteke, 1889), 16f. The followers of the heretic formed two concentric circles: an outer group of enthusiastic adherents ­u nder his influence and an inner group of close associates such as the priest Everwacher and the smith Manasses. Manasses had a multiplying effect since he founded his own fraternitatem quandam, quam Gilda vulgo appellant. 100. Cécile Caby, “Finis eremitarum? Les formes régulières et communautaires de l’érémitisme medieval,” in Ermites de France et d’Italie, XIe–­XVe siècle, ed. André Vauchez (Rome: École française, 2003), 47–80. 101. Leyser, Hermits, 13; Peter Brown, Society and the Holy in Late Antiquity (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1982), 134. Citations at Ott, Bishops, 82 (including n. 71). 102. Gaufridus Grossus, Vita beati Bernardi fundatoris congregationis de Tironio in Gallia, PL 172.1363–446. col. 1410A (c. 71f.). 103. Ivo of Chartres, Epistolae, PL 162.9–288. col. 261B (Ep. 256); Morin, “Rainaud,” 104: “Sermo quippe eorum praecipuus de cibis et potibus, de pitantiis et generalibus, de stratis et vestimentis, et vestimentorum mutatoriis. Linguas insuper acuunt in abbatum parcitates: accusant officiales, et deponere laborant, quia forsitan eorum loco substitui desiderant. Praeterea, cum pedibus nequeant, linguis saltem forinsecus evagantes, regum ducumque pugnas et victorias studiosius quam psalmos eloquentes, quasi inter se factis partibus verbis pugnant cum pugnantibus.” 104. This passage and following ones come from Ivo von Chartres, Epistolae, PL 162.201B–­D (ep. 256). 105. On this last category, see Rule of St. Benedict, ed. Ulrich Faust (Stuttgart: Reclam, 2009), 20 (c. 1.6). 106. Libellus de diversis ordinibus et professionibus qui sunt in aecclesia, ed. Giles Constable and Bernard S. Smith (Oxford: Clarendon, 2003), 14 (the canon’s plea). For other defenses of



Notes to Pages 69–71

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diverse lifestyles, see Haverkamp, “Leben,” 37 (Loctulf, cathedral dean of Toul, in 1091 without mention of hermits); Klaus Schreiner, “Toleranz: Abschn. I–­X,” in Geschichtliche Grundbegriffe: Historisches Lexikon zur politisch-­sozialen Sprache in Deutschland, Bd. 6, ed. Otto Brunner et al. (Stuttgart: Klett-­Cotta, 1990), 445–94, pp. 455–57. Diversity is revealed as a central concept for Pope Gregory I in Paul Meyvaert, “Diversity Within Unity: A Gregorian Theme,” Heythrop Journal 4 (1963), 141–62. A passage from the Moralia in Iob (quoted at p. 148) compares the diversity of t­ hose who hear a sermon to a well-­tuned stringed instrument. One must make sure all the strings are correctly tuned then pluck them one a­ fter another in order to create a pleasing sound. 107. Klaus Schreiner has shown that basically all reform movements within the Latin Church have held up the vita apostolica as an ideal. Klaus Schreiner, “Ein Herz und eine Seele: Eine urchristliche Lebensform und ihre Institutionalisierung im augustinisch geprägten Mönchtum des hohen und späten Mittelalters,” in Regula Sancti Augustini: Normative Grundlage differenter Verbände im Mittelalter, ed. Gert Melville and Anne Müller (Paring: Augustiner-­ Chorherren, 2002), 1–48, p. 14f., on hermits and wandering preachers. We are more concerned with the institutional forces that led the new hermits to contrast the vita apostolica with the monastic lifestyle. 108. Steidle, “Schola,” 397–99. This usage is dif­fer­ent from that in the monastic rules. See also Heinrich M. Schmidinger, “Scholastik und Neuscholastik: Geschichte zweier Begriffe,” in Christliche Philosophie im katholischen Denken des 19. und 20. Jahrhunderts, vol. 2: Rückgriff auf scholastisches Erbe, ed. Emerich Coreth, Walter  M. Neidl, and Georg Pfligersdorffer (Graz: Styria, 1988), 23–53, p. 32f. For additional studies on the semantics of schola, see Peter Classen, Studium und Gesellschaft im Mittelalter, ed. Johannes Fried, MGH Schriften 29 (Stuttgart: Hiersemann, 1983), 30f. 109. On the traditional view of the monastery as a schola, see Ulrich Köpf, “Monastische und scholastische Theologie,” in Bernhard von Clairvaux und der Beginn der Moderne, ed. Die­ ter R. Bauer and Gotthard Fuchs (Innsbruck: Tyrolia, 1996), 96–135, p. 108. 110. Michaud-­Quantin, Universitas, 27. 111. Vie de Saint Étienne d’Obazine, ed. Aubrun, 58.15 (c. 1.9): “Hominum illorum non facile sciri conversatio potest, cum tanto silentio obtegantur ut non solum verbo sed nec voce aliquatenus audiantur. Sed tamen oribus silentibus, opera non tacent, que auctore Deo ipsorum religiositati evidens testimonium reddunt. Est autem unus inter eos qui ceteris preest, cujus magisterio edocti et informati exemplo ita refulgent. Sermo eius quasi ignis ardens ita audientium mentes accendit et tanto amore inebriat ut manente personarum proprietate, alii quodammodo ex aliis efficiantur et vite eorum morumque qualitas immutetur. Sed et habitus ejus et incessus vel cuncta que agit quasi quidem sermo sunt, nihilque aliud incidant quam vite ordinem morumque et actuum disciplinam. Unde mirum non est tales esse discipulos qui talem habent magistrum, qui eos et absque verbo sufficienter potest docere.” 112. Vie de Saint Étienne d’Obazine, ed. Aubrun, 70.24 (c. 1.16): “Hec erat tunc beati viri vera sanaque doctrina, que privatim et publice sibi adherentibus ingerebat. Hec lex tunc promulgabatur et pharisaice traditiones non curabantur.” P. 96.7 (c. 2.1): “Interea fratres Obazine nullis adhuc scriptis legibus tenebantur, sed instituta magistri venerabilis pro lege habebant.” 113. On the “waning of charisma” (Entcharismatisierung), see Melville, Eifer, 50.

Chapter 4 1. Codex Udalrici, ed. Naß, 2.662–64 (c. 389), h ­ ere 663.7: “Parisius sum modo, in scolis magistri Gwillelmi, summi viri omnium huius temporis, quos ego noverim in omni genere doctrine. Cuius vocem cum audimus, non hominem, sed quasi angelum de celoloqui putamus, nam et dulcedo verborum eius et profunditas sententiarum quasi humanum modum transcendit. Qui cum esset archidiaconus fereque apud regem primus, omnibus, que possidebat, dimissis in preterito pascha ad quandam pauperrimam ecclesiolam soli deo serviturus se contulit ibique

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postea omnibus undique ad eum venientibus gratis et causa dei solummodo more magistri Manegaldi beate memorie devotum ac benignum se prebuit. Iamque tantum studium regit tam in divinis quam in humanis scientiis, quantum nec vidi nec meo tempore usquam terrarum esse audivi.” Monumenta Bambergensia, ed. Philipp Jaffé (Berlin: Weidmann, 1869), 285–87 (c. 160). Jaffé dates the letter between April 2, 1111, and May 25 or December 24, 1113, but is unable to identify the author. While the letter is often cited when discussing William as a teacher, most have focused only on the section on his time studying in Paris. Few have considered why it was written, which is crucial to understanding the account. Its transmission within the Codex Udalrici is often misunderstood. The Codex is not actually or­ga­nized chronologically, an opinion that became common ­because of Jaffé’s rearrangement of texts in his edition. On this error, see Codex Udalrici, ed. Naß, LV. The letter, therefore, cannot be dated based on its neighboring texts. 2. On William’s biography and its chronology, see especially Charles de Miramon, “Quatre notes biographiques sur Guillaume de Champeaux,” in Arts du langage et théologie aux confins des XIe et XIIe siècle: Textes, maîtres, débats, ed. Irène Rosier-­C atach (Turnhout: Brepols, 2011), 45–82; Constant J. Mews, “Logica in the Ser­v ice of Philosophy: William of Champeaux and His Influence,” in Schrift, Schreiber, Schenker: Studien zur Abtei Sankt Viktor zu Paris und zu den Viktorinern, ed. Rainer Berndt (Berlin: Akademie, 2005), 77–117, including an overview of older research at p.  77, n. 2; Constant  J. Mews, “William of Champeaux, the Foundation of Saint-­ Victor (Easter, 1111), and the Evolution of Abelard’s Early ­Career,” in Arts du langage, ed. Irène Rosier-­Catach, 83–104; Constant J. Mews, “Memories of William of Champeaux: The Necrology and the Early Years of Saint-­Victor,” in Legitur in necrologio victorino: Studien zum Nekrolog der Abtei Saint-­Victor zu Paris, ed. Anette Löffler and Björn Gebert (Münster: Aschendorff, 2015), 71–97; John Marenbon, “Logic at the Turn of the Twelfth ­Century: A Synthesis,” in Arts du langage, ed. Rosier-­Catach, 181–217. See also Robert-­Henri Bautier, “Les origines et les premiers développements de l’abbaye Saint-­Victor de Paris,” in L’abbaye parisienne de Saint-­Victor au moyen âge: Communications présentées au XIIIe Colloque d’Humanisme médiéval de Paris (1986–1988), ed. Jean Longère (Paris: Brepols, 1991), 23–52; Robert-­Henri Bautier, “Paris au temps d’Abélard,” in Abélard et son temps: Actes du colloque international organisé à l’occasion du 9e centenaire de la naissance de Pierre Abélard (14–19 mai 1979), ed. Jean Jolivet (Paris: Les Belles Lettres, 1981), 21–77. 3. Cartulaire général de Paris, vol. 1, ed. Robert de Lasteyrie (Paris: Imprimerie Nationale, 1887), 167f. (no. 148). See also Miramon, “Quatre notes,” 47f. 4. On preferring the date of 1111 over 1108, see Mews, “Memories,” 72f. 5. Recueil des Actes de Louis VI, roi de France (1108–1137), ed. Jean Dufour (Paris: De Boccard, 1992), 1.176f. (no. 80). On this location, see Julian Führer, “L’abbaye de Saint-­Victor dans la réforme canoniale,” in L’école de Saint-­Victor de Paris: Influence et rayonnement du Moyen Age à l’Epoque moderne, ed. Dominique Poirel (Turnhout: Brepols, 2010), 57–77, pp. 63–67. On its description as a cella vet[us] trans flumen Parisiorum in the time of Louis VII, see Bautier, “Origines,” 26, n. 6. For the excavation reports, see Charles Magne, “Fouilles Place de Jussieu et dans la Halle aux Vins,” Procès-­verbaux de la Commission du Vieux Paris: Dec. 1912 (1913), 243–48; Charles Sellier, “Vestiges de l’ancienne église abbatiale de Saint-­Victor; sépultures mérovingiennes l’avoisinant,” Procès-­verbaux de la Commission du Vieux Paris: 1901 (1902), 169–71. 6. Codex Udalrici, ed. Naß, 2.663.17 (c. 389): “Hic, venerande mi, iuventutem meam exerceo, ne viciis illis, que hanc etatem plerumque solent precipitare, devicta subcumbat omnino. Hic rudem animum tenebris ignorantie pro dolor ex culpa primi hominis mancipatum doctrina et studio illuminare satago, quantum ipse deus dignabitur prestare, a quo solo est omne bonum sapientie. Quod videlicet bonum sapientie, quando cum munda intentione queritur et suscipitur, merito ab omnibus discretis summum et creditur et habetur. Scientia enim, ut ait apostolus, sine caritate inflat, scientia vero cum caritate edifficat (1. Cor. 8:1). Vicia enim eruit, virtutes in-



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serit, fruentem se, quid sibi, quid proximo, quid creatori debeat, instruit, denique mentem, cui ipsa presidet, contra omnes molestias huius vite extrinsecus accidentes sua presentia premunit ac defendit. Sepe igitur ac desiderio huiusmodi boni, non spe alicuius inanis lucri, tanto tempore exilium, famem, sitim, nuditatem ceterasque miserias, quas longum est enumerare, perpetior. Nam re vera, nisi ipsa speculatio veritatis sua quadam naturali dulcedine appetentes se alliceret ac refoveret, non credo, quemquam hominem tam ferreum fore, qui talem laborem, qualem huiusmodi studium exigit, vel vellet vel posset sustinere. Porro autem nolo vos ignorare, quia munus vestre largitionis cum summa gratiarum actione suscepi, tantum gavisus aut etiam amplius de affectu mittentis quam de quantitate ipsius muneris. Qua de re certum et fixum volo vos habere, si quid sum vel ero, per omnia vobis obnoxius permanebo. Numquam enim excidet memorie mee, quantum ruditati mee contuleritis, vel sola mors, ut taceam de aliis composicione.” 7. Codex Udalrici, ed. Naß, 2.664.1 (c. 389): “Dominum episcopum, uti mihi mandastis, Guarmatie alio anno conveni, sed ipse tepide, nescio quo modo, se erga me habuit. Neque ego, ut vobis in aurem dictum sit, multum me ingessi. Ipse sponte sua nichil mihi obtulit et ego licet indignus dissimulata tamen paupertate nichil ab eo pecii. Quin etiam aliquantulum indignationis visus est mihi erga me habuisse.” 8. The donation charter has been dated to between May 21 and August 2, 1113: Recueil des Actes de Louis VI, ed. Dufour, 173–80 (no.  80). On the context of its foundation, see Führer, “L’abbaye,” 137f. 9. Cédric Giraud, “Anselm of Laon in the Twelfth-­C entury Schools: Between fama and memoria,” in The Making of Memory in the ­Middle Ages, ed. Lucie Doležalová (Leiden: Brill, 2010), 328–46, p. 337. The story about Anselm making this claim “in order not to be abducted into a prelate’s office” (ne raperetur in prelationem) comes from Peter the Chanter’s Verbum abbreviatum. 10. Robert of Torigni, Tractatus de immutatione ordinis monachorum, PL 202.1309–20. col. 1313A (Tract. 5): “Eodem tempore magister Willelmus de Campellis, qui fuerat archidiaconus Parisiensis, vir admodum litteratus et religiosus, habitum canonici regularis assumens cum aliquibus discipulis suis, extra urbem Parisiensem in loco, ubi erat quaedam capella sancti Victoris martyris, coepit monasterium aedificare clericorum. Assumpto autem illo ad episcopatum Cathalaunensium, venerabilis Geldoinus discipulus eius, primus abbas ibi factus est. Sub cuius regimine multi clerici nobiles saecularibus et divinis litteris instructi, ad illum locum habitaturi convenerunt; inter quos magister Hugo Lothariensis, et scientia litterarum et humili religione maxime effloruit. Hic multos libros edidit, quos, quia vulgo habentur, non oportet enumerare.” This note is also added to the entry for the year 1112 in one manuscript group of Robert’s chronicle: Robert of Torigni, Chronica, ed. Ludwig Konrad Bethmann, MGH SS 6 (Hanover: Hahnsche Buchhandlung, 1844), 475–535, p. 484, n. a. 11. AHLett. 8 (Ep. 1.6): “Elapsis autem paucis annis . . . ​, preceptor meus ille Guillelmus Parisiacensis archidiaconus, habitu pristino commutato, ad regularium clericorum ordinem se convertit; ea ut referebant intentione ut quo religiosior crederetur ad maioris prelationis gradum promoveretur, sicut in proximo contigit, eo Catalaunensi episcopo facto.” 12. On his role as a mediator in the conflict with the excommunicated Emperor Henry V, see Codex Udalrici, ed. Naß, 2.545.28 (c. 324). 13. AHLett. 6 (Ep. 1.3). 14. Mews, “Memories,” 72f. Abelard brusquely passes over William’s own interest in monasticism from around 1115 on. Abelard’s preference for the monk’s life over the clerical life is the focus of Letter 12 contra quendam canonicum regularem. Abelard, “Letters IX–­X IV: An Edition with an Introduction,” ed. Edmé Renno Smits (PhD diss., Rijksuniversiteit Groningen, 1983), 257–69, and 110f. on its transmission. See also pp.  153–72 for comparison to Abelard’s other works, especially Sermon 33.

260

Notes to Pages 73–75

15. Miramon, “Quatre notes,” 49f., with reference to the unpublished work of Dominique Poirel on the chronicle. 16. Joachim Ehlers, Hugo von St. Viktor: Studien zum Geschichtsdenken und zur Geschichtsschreibung des 12. Jahrhunderts (Wiesbaden: Steiner, 1973), 27–33, n. 42. 17. Mews, “Memories,” 77. 18. Necrologium abbatiae Sancti Victoris Parisiensis, ed. Ursula Vones-­Liebenstein and Monika Seifert (Münster: Aschendorff, 2012), 93, on VIII Kal. Februarii: “Eodem die anniversarium magistri Guillermi Cathalaunensis episcopi et nostri canonici.” 19. Necrologium Sancti Victoris, ed. Vones-­Liebenstein and Seifert, 148, on “Idus Aprilis”: “Anniversarium sollempne venerabilis patris nostri Gilduini primi huius ecclesie abbatis, magne auctoritatis atque sanctitatis viri. Hic zelum dei et ordinis habens, canonicum ordinem qui pene totus defecerat reparavit. In diebus eius domus nostra super ceteras nostri ordinis domos primatum tenuit et religionis prerogativa longe lateque velud clarissimum sidus emicuit. Ecclesiam et ceteras officinas a fundamentis et inchoavit et consummavit, et excepta dote regia, prebendis atque annualibus et multis aliis redditibus ampliavit. Proinde statutum est, ut tanti patris memoria per singulos annos pre ceteris sollempniter celebretur et ante missam commendatio fiat et pro anima eius per singulos dies prebenda una integra ad elemosinam in perpetuum prebeatur.” Gilduin was a student of William’s according to the report of Robert of Torigni mentioned above. 20. On this point, see Ehlers, Hugo, 3; Mews, “Memories,” 73f. On William and the charters of Puiseaux and St. Victor, see Julian Führer, König Ludwig VI. von Frankreich und die Kanonikerreform (Frankfurt am Main: Peter Lang, 2008), 141–46; Mews, “Memories,” 84. 21. Even if Gilduin is no longer recognized as the author of the Liber ordinis of St. Victor, it was certainly he and his fellow b ­ rothers who did most of the work on the text. Liber ordinis sancti Victoris Parisiensis, ed. Luc Jocqué and Ludo Milis, CCCM 61 (Turnhout: Brepols, 1984), ixf.; Ludo Milis, “Hermites et chanoines réguliers au XIIe siècle,” Cahiers de civilisation médiévale 22 (1979), 39–80, p. 44. 22. Rupert of Deutz, De vita vere apostolica, PL 170.609–64. col. 659C (c. 5.17): “Nam contra etiam memoria beatus Willelmus Catalaunensis episcopus, cum esset perfectus regularis canonicus, omniumque iudicio probatus, terque licet subterfugisset, tandem invitus episcopus efficitur. In quo quam sancte vixisset, nullus qui hoc scit dubitare conceditur.” On the question of author (Rupert of Deutz or Honorius Augustodunensis), see Marie-­Odile Garrigues, “Du nouveau à propos du De vita vere apostolica,” Studia monastica 29 (1987), 251–64. What ­were ­t hese three evasive attempts? One was surely the move to the cella vetus of St. Victor, another perhaps the short-­term plan at Puiseaux. And the third? His abandonment of the teaching position at the cathedral school, which he reversed as soon as the incumbent approached Peter Abelard? AHLett. 10 (Ep. 1.7). On the suggestion that this teacher was Goswin of Anchin, see Mews, “Memories,” 91–94. 23. La Chronique de Morigny (1095–1152), ed. Léon Mirot, 2nd ed. (Paris: Picard, 1912), 42: “Cono, Prenestinus episcopus et Apostolice Sedis legatus, apud nos hospitandi gracia divertisset, habens secum velut auxiliatorem magnum, Willermum, Catalaunensem episcopum, qui sublimes scolas rexerat, et tunc zelum Dei habens, super omnes episcopos totius Gallie divinarum scripturarum scientia fulgebat.” See also Mews, “Memories,” 87. 24. Mews, “Memories,” 91–94. 25. Liber ordinis sancti Victoris, ed. Jocqué and Milis, viii. 26. Ludo Milis, one of the editors of the Liber ordinis sancti Victoris, is an expert in con­ temporary eremitism and connects the foundation of St. Victor with it. Eremitic movements, according to him, are often rooted in the initiatives of educated clerics. Milis, “Hermites,” 46f. At p. 126f., Milis also examines William of Champeaux and the impor­tant letter of Hildebert of Lavardin. It is entirely pos­si­ble that William had at some pointed wanted to move his group to



Notes to Pages 75–77

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Puiseaux, far from any major city. They ­were soon, however, redirected to St. Victor, whose early endowment coincides almost exactly with William’s appointment as bishop of Châlons. On the Puiseaux proj­ect and its relationship to the foundation and early growth of St. Victor, see Führer, Ludwig, 137–46. Abelard seems to allude to this proj­ect at AHLett. 12 (Ep. 1.8). On the model of master Manegold, see Caiazzo, “Manegold.” 27. Achille Luchaire, ed., Louis VI le Gros. Annales de sa vie et de son règne (1081–1137) (Paris: Picard, 1890), 59f. (111). See also Mews, “Memories,” 81. 28. Hildebert of Lavardin, Epistolae, PL 171.141–312. col. 141–43 (Ep. 1). Following quote at col. 142A. On the stoic essence of the letter, see Peter von Moos, Hildebert von Lavardin, 1056–1133: Humanitas an der Schwelle des höfischen Zeitalters (Stuttgart: Hiersemann, 1965), 103–5. Von Moos believed that the letter was written in 1108 since he assumed that William resigning from his archdeaconate was the point when the St. Victor plans w ­ ere initiated. The date 1111 is preferred ­today. 29. Previous quote at PL 171.143A, following quote at 141B. Hildebert’s message is that it is better to share knowledge than to jealously keep it for oneself. Von Moos, Hildebert, 25 (“Wissenshabsucht”). 30. Hildebert of Lavardin, Epistolae, PL 171.142B (Ep. 1): Praeterea sub evangelico te cohibuisti consilio, quo iuvenis a Christo audivit: ‘Vade, vende omnia quae habes, et da pauperibus, et veni sequere me’ (Mark 10:21). Holocaustum igitur habes offerre, non sacrificium; de eorum quippe differentia apud Gregorium sic legisti: ‘In sacrificio quidem pars pecudis, in holocausto autem totum offerri consuevit.’ Et post pauca: ‘Cum quis aliquid suum vovet, sacrificium est; cum vero omne quod habet, omne quod vivit, omne quod sapit, omnipotenti Deo voverit, holocaustum est.’ Offer ergo te totum Domino Deo, quoniam Domino Deo totum te devovisti; alioquin eum promisso defraudas holocausto.” 31. Hildebert of Lavardin, Epistolae, PL 171.142A (Ep. 1): “Fert autem fama, id a quibusdam tibi persuasum, ut ab omni lectione penitus abstineas.” See also Moos, Hildebert, 136–38. The letter apparently made a strong impression on Gilbert Foliot, who faced the same decision years ­later but eventually chose the monastic life over teaching. Adrian Morey and Christopher N. L. Brooke, Gilbert Foliot and His Letters (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1965), 57f. 32. The anonymous chronicle can be dated ­a fter 1108 and prob­ably a­ fter 1110. A connection to history writing at Fleury is assumed but has not been investigated thoroughly. A critical edition would be welcome, but for now: Delisle, ed., Recueil, 10.210–12, 11.160–62, 12.1–8. On the passage, see Fuhrmann, “Biographie,” 276; Anne Grondeux and Irène Rosier-­Catach, “Les Glosule super Priscianum et leur tradition,” in Arts du langage, ed. Rosier-­Catach, 107–79, p. 151f.; Constant J. Mews, Reason and Belief in the Age of Roscelin and Abelard (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2002), 5, 13 (no. 8); Constant J. Mews, Abelard and His Legacy (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2001). ­These last two essay collections ­w ill be cited henceforth as monographs by essay number and page number. 33. On Otto, see Rexroth, “Fehltritte.” On William of Tyre, see Rainer Christoph Schwinges, Kreuzzugsideologie und Toleranz: Studien zu Wilhelm von Tyrus (Stuttgart: Hiersemann, 1977), 23–29. In general, see Richard W. Southern, Scholastic Humanism and the Unification of Eu­rope, 2 vols. (Oxford: Blackwell, 1995–2001), 1.195–97. 34. Delisle, ed., Recueil, 12.3: “Hoc tempore, tam in divina quam in humana philosophia floruerunt Lanfrancus Cantuariorum episcopus, Guido Langobardus, Maingaudus Teutonicus, Bruno Remensis, qui postea vitam duxit heremiticam. In Dialectica quoque hi potentes extiterunt Sophistae; Joannes, qui eandem artem Sophisticam vocalem esse disseruit, Rotbertus Parisiacensis, Roscelinus Compendiensis, Arnulfus Laudunensis. Hi Joannis fuerunt sectatores, qui etiam quamplures habuerunt auditores.” 35. On Peter Damian’s criticism, see Chapter 3. 36. Master Manegold may be added h ­ ere if he indeed became a regular canon at Lautenbach, Rottenbuch, and Marbach: Caiazzo, “Manegold”; Fuhrmann, “Biographie”; Manegold, Liber contra Wolfelmum, trans. Ziomkowski.

262

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37. Lanfranc is referred to as bishop of Canterbury from 1070, and Bruno is said to have ­later led a hermit’s life (prob­ably his foundation of a hermitage at Sèche-­Fontaine in 1084). 38. John Marenbon, Medieval Philosophy: An Historical and Philosophical Introduction (London: Routledge, 2007), 134f. 39. Research on the Glosulae to Priscian began to increase significantly in the late 1970s. For an introduction, see Grondeux and Rosier-­Catach, “Glosule.” On their attribution to John, see Mews, Reason, 4–34, esp. 33 (no. 7). 40. Like the Codex Udalrici, ­t hese texts also made their way to Bamberg, where they ­were gathered into a collection of poems from 1102 to 1125. Their connection to the epitaph for a count’s d ­ aughter should be noted. Codex Udalrici, ed. Naß, 1.9–11 (cc. 4–6). 41. Mews, Reason, 4–34 (no. 7), p. 26: Roscelin draws his ideas of personhood and “his understanding of language as a w ­ hole” from the Glosulae. 42. Mews, Reason, 55–98 (no. 6), 4–34 (no. 7); AHLett. 519–21 (App. 1). 43. Richard  W. Southern, Saint Anselm: A Portrait in a Landscape (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1990), 175f. 44. Garland the Computist, Dialectica, ed. Lambert Marie de Rijk (Assen: Van Gorcum, 1959). For an assessment, see Tweedale, “Logic,” 198–204; Eleonore Stump, “Dialectic,” in The Seven Liberal Arts in the ­Middle Ages, ed. David L. Wagner (Bloomington, Ind.: Indiana University Press, 1983), 125–46, p. 135; Eleonore Stump, “Logic in the Early Twelfth ­Century,” in Meaning and Inference in Medieval Philosophy: Studies in Memory of Jan Pinborg, ed. Norman Kretzmann (Dordrecht: Kluwer, 1988), 31–55. On attempts to distinguish the dif­fer­ent Garlands, see the “Biographical Register of Major Authors Represented in MS Oxford St. John’s College,” http://­ digital​.­library​.­mcgill​.­ca​/­ms​-­17​/­fetchfoliodoc​.­php​?­target​=­BIOGRAPHICAL​_­REGISTER (accessed May 9, 2022). Importantly, the early dating to “before 1040” has been discarded thanks to the separation of Garland the Computist and Gerland of Besançon. The author and his treatise, therefore, belong to our context. Yukio Iwakuma, “Vocales Revisited,” in The Word in Medieval Logic, Theology and Psy­chol­ogy, ed. Charles S. F. Burnett (Turnhout: Brepols, 2009), 81–171; Marenbon, “Logic” (2011), 187. 45. Herman of Tournai, Liber de restauratione monasterii sancti Martini Tornacensis, ed. Georg Waitz, MGH SS 14 (Hanover: Hahnsche Buchhandlung, 1883), 274–327, p. 274f. (Liber 1). On him, see below in this chapter. 46. On the attribution of this text, see Cédric Giraud and Constant J. Mews, “Le Liber pancrisis, un florilège des Pères et des maitres modernes du XIIe siècle,” Archivum Latinitatis Medii Aevi 64 (2006), 145–92, p. 178; Rolf Schönberger et al., eds., Repertorium edierter Texte des Mittelalters aus dem Bereich der Philosophie und angrenzender Gebiete, 4 vols. (Berlin: Akademie, 2011), 2.1653–55. 47. Jocelin, Goscelin, or Gauslenus. Grondeux and Rosier-­Catach, “Glosule,” 146f.; Mews, “Logica,” 112. 48. Novikoff, Culture, 34–61. 49. Christof Rolker, Canon Law and the Letters of Ivo of Chartres (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010). 50. John  C. Wei, “The Sentence Collection Deus non habet initium vel terminum and Its Reworking, Deus itaque summe atque ineffabiliter bonus,” Mediaeval Studies 73 (2011), 1–118. See pp.  1–4 on the changing understanding of Anselm’s reception. The current scholarly understanding can be found in Cédric Giraud, Per verba magistri: Anselme de Laon et son école au XIIe siècle (Turnhout: Brepols, 2010). See also AHLett. 525–27. 51. The oldest surviving manuscripts of Aristotle’s dialectical works w ­ ere prob­ably written at Charlemagne’s court. Fried, “Karl,” 34f. 52. John Marenbon, “The Tradition of Studying the Categories in the Early M ­ iddle Ages (­Until c. 1200): A Revised Working Cata­logue of Glosses, Commentaries and Treatises,” in



Notes to Pages 80–81

263

Aristotle’s Categories in the Byzantine, Arabic and Latin Traditions, ed. Sten Ebbesen, John Marenbon, and Paul Thom (Copenhagen: Royal Danish Acad­emy, 2013), 139–73; Augustine, Confessiones, ed. Verheijen, 54 (4.28.54). 53. Christian Vogel, Boethius’ Übersetzungsprojekt: Philosophische Grundlagen und didaktische Methoden eines spätantiken Wissenstransfers (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 2016). On Boethius as the philosophus Latinorum and the Latin Aristotle, see Gangolf Schrimpf, “Philosophia, philosophantes: Zum Selbstverständnis der vor-­und frühscholastischen Denker,” Studi medievali serie terza 23 (1982), 697–727, p. 709, n. 32. 54. John Marenbon, “La logique en occident latin (ca. 780–ca. 1150): Le programme des études et ses enjeux,” in Ad notitiam ignoti: L’Organon dans la translatio studiorum à l’époque d’Albert le G ­ rand, ed. Julie Brumberg-­Chaumont (Turnhout: Brepols, 2013), 173–91. Quote at p.  179. As the aetas Boetiana in Marie-­Dominique Chenu, La théologie au douzième siècle (Paris: Vrin, 1957), 142. See also Tweedale, “Logic,” 196. 55. Tweedale, “Logic,” 196–98. The inclusion of “very difficult books” in this canon was formative. Norman Kretzmann, “Introduction,” in Cambridge History of ­Later Medieval Philosophy: From the Rediscovery of Aristotle to the Disintegration of Scholasticism 1100–1600, ed. Norman Kretzmann, Kenny Anthony, and Jan Pinborg (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1982), 1–8, p. 5. On the rapid growth of dialectic and rhe­toric, see Johannes Fried, ed., Dialektik und Rhetorik im früheren und hohen Mittelalter: Rezeption, Überlieferung und gesellschaftliche Wirkung antiker Gelehrsamkeit vornehmlich im 9. und 12. Jahrhundert (Munich: Oldenbourg, 1997). 56. Vogel, Übersetzungsprojekt; Marenbon, Medieval Philosophy, 35–45. 57. Marenbon, “Logic” (2011), 182–87. On the development of the commentary works, see the material that Yukio Iwakuma has made available on his website: http://­w ww​.­s​.­f pu​.­ac​.­jp​ /­iwakuma​/­papers​/­MastersII​.­pdf (accessed May  9, 2022). See also the lists in John Marenbon, “Medieval Latin Commentaries and Glosses on Aristotelian Logical Texts, before c. 1150 AD,” in John Marenbon, Aristotelian Logic, Platonism, and the Context of Early Medieval Philosophy in the West (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2000 [orig. 1993]), 77–140 (no.  2); Yukio Iwakuma, “Alberic of Paris on Mont Ste Geneviève Against Peter Abelard,” in Logic and Language in the ­Middle Ages: A Volume in Honour of Sten Ebbesen, ed. Jakob L. Fink, Heine Hansen, and Ana María Mora-­ Márquez (Leiden: Brill, 2013), 27–47. On the logica nova, see Sten Ebbesen, “Medieval Latin Glosses and Commentaries on Aristotelian Logical Texts of the Twelfth and Thirteenth Centuries,” in Glosses and Commentaries on Aristotelian Logical Texts: The Syriac, Arabic and Medieval Latin Traditions, ed. Charles S. F. Burnett (London: Warburg Institute, University of London, 1993), 129–77; Neils J. Green-­Pedersen, The Tradition of the Topics in the M ­ iddle Ages: The Commentaries on Aristotle’s and Boethius’ “Topics” (Munich: Philosophia, 1984). On their dating, especially the current trend ­toward the ­earlier end, see Marenbon, “Logic” (2011), 186: “for many a dating any time from the ­later eleventh ­century to the 1120s is pos­si­ble.” For an excellent look at the ­earlier commentaries especially, see John Marenbon, “Logic at the Turn of the Twelfth ­Century,” in Handbook of the History of Logic, vol. 2: Medieval and Re­nais­sance Logic, ed. Dov M. Gabbay and John Woods (Amsterdam: Elsevier North-­Holland, 2008), 65–81. See pp. 68–70 for a list of early texts from before about 1115. On the history of the genre, see also Jan-­Hendryk de Boer, “Kommentar,” in Universitäre Gelehrtenkultur vom 13.–16. Jahrhundert: Ein interdisziplinäres Quellen-­und Methodenhandbuch, ed. Jan-­Hendryk de Boer, Marian Füssel, and Maximilian Schuh (Wiesbaden: Steiner, 2018), 265–318. 58. Much attention has been given to the knowledge and use of the Analytica priora before this era. For an assessment, see Marenbon, “Logic” (2008), 66. On John of Salisbury’s pride in the discovery of the Topics, which he praised in verse in his Metalogicon, see Peter von Moos, Gesammelte Studien zum Mittelalter, vol. 3: Öffentliches und Privates, Gemeinsames und Eigenes, ed. Gert Melville (Münster: LIT, 2007), 323–25; Novikoff, Culture, 108–18. On the pseudo-­A ristotelian

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Economics, see Mauro Zonta, “Économiques,” in Dictionnaire des philosophes antiques: Supplement, ed. Richard Goulet (Paris: Centre national de la recherche scientifique, 2003), 547–53. 59. Yukio Iwakuma, for example, has dated the commentary ­earlier than ­others. Yukio Iwakuma, “Pseudo-­Rabanus super Porphyrium (P3),” Archives d’histoire doctrinale et littéraire du Moyen Age 75 (2008), 43–196, pp. 52, 55. 60. On the state of research around 2010, see Rosier-­C atach, Arts. John Marenbon’s list of glosses and commentaries on Aristotle’s logical texts from before 1150 was already impressively long in 1993 and was further supplemented for its reprint in 2000. Marenbon, “Commentaries.” By 2007, he had recorded over one hundred. Marenbon, Philosophy, 132. Although Marenbon did not date any of them to e­ arlier than 1090, the essays in Rosier-­Catach’s volume suggest other­w ise. 61. The inclusion of Abelard’s sentences in this tradition earned him his first significant attention from modern intellectual historians. Heinrich Denifle, “Die Sentenzen Abaelards und die Bearbeitungen seiner Theologia vor Mitte des 12. Jahrhunderts,” Archiv für Litteratur-­und Kirchengeschichte des Mittelalters 1 (1885), 402–69, 584–624. 62. For example (again), the so-­c alled Pseudo-­R abanus. See Iwakuma, “Pseudo-­Rabanus,” 55. According to Iwakuma, William of Champeaux authored the commentary on Porphyry’s Isagoge and drew on Boethius’s commentary. The differences between the two versions (from the Paris and Assisi manuscripts) are attributable to William’s students. 63. On the Limoges treatise, which may have been written by the aforementioned Robert of Paris, see Marenbon, “Logic” (2011), 186–93. 64. Marenbon, “Logic” (2011), 197. 65. Peter of Blois, Epistolae, PL 207.1–560. col. 312C (Ep. 101). 66. See Iwakuma, “Pseudo-­R abanus,” 85f., where the draft warns that the terms genus and species have multiple meanings. The master seems to have identified three such significationes, which the writer of the Paris manuscript took as his starting point. 67. Klaus Jacobi, “William of Champeaux: Remarks on the Tradition in the Manuscripts,” in Arts du langage, ed. Rosier-­Catach, 261–71, p. 263f. 68. The most concise description of this pro­cess is found in John Marenbon, Abelard in Four Dimensions: A Twelfth-­Century Phi­los­o­pher in His Context and Ours (Notre Dame, Ind.: University of Notre Dame Press, 2013), 25–27. 69. Yukio Iwakuma, “Pierre Abélard et Guillaume de Champeaux dans les premières années du XIIe siècle: Une étude préliminaire,” in Langage, sciences, philosophie au XIIe siècle, ed. Joël Biard (Paris: Vrin, 1999), 93–123, pp. 95–97; Christopher J. Martin, “A Note on the Attribution of the ‘Litteral Glosses’ in Paris, BnF, lat. 13 368 to Peter Abaelard,” in Arts du langage, ed. Rosier-­Catach, 605–46, pp. 643–45. 70. Porphyry, Isagoge: Texte grec, translatio Boethii, traduction, ed. Alain De Libera and Alain Philippe Segonds (Paris: Vrin, 1998), De Libera 1 (introduction, c. 2): “Mox de generibus ac speciebus illud quidem, sive subsistunt sive in solis nudis purisque intellectibus posita sunt sive subsistentia corporalia sunt an incorporalia, et utrum separata an in sensibilibus et circa ea constantia, dicere recusabo. Altissimum enim est huiusmodi negotium et maioris egens inquisitionis.” The prob­lem outlined ­here should not be confused with the question of ­whether universals actually exist, which is a metaphysical question first asked in our era by Abelard. Among the many views, we are concerned with what scholars call (somewhat confusingly) “proto-­vocalism.” This term was pop­u ­lar­ized by Iwakuma in reaction to Marenbon’s criticism of his ­earlier approach to the topic. Iwakuma, “Vocales” (2009); John Marenbon, “Life, Milieu, and Intellectual Contexts,” in The Cambridge Companion to Abelard, ed. Jeffrey E. Brower and Kevin Guilfoy (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004), 13–144, pp. 26–34 especially; Yukio Iwakuma, “Vocales or Early Nominalists,” Traditio 47 (1992), 37–111. 71. Cited in Iwakuma, “Vocales” (1992), 43–45.



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72. Anselm of Canterbury, Opera omnia, ed. Franz Salesius Schmitt, 6 parts in 2 vols. (Edinburgh: Thomas Nelson, 1938–61), 1.285.4 (Epistola de incarnatione verbi, prior recensio): “Illi utique dialectici, qui non nisi flatum vocis putant universales esse substantias, et qui colorem non aliud queunt intelligere quam corpus, nec sapientiam hominis aliud quam animam, prorsus a spiritualium quaestionum disputatione sunt exsufflandi.” See also p. 1.289.17 and 2.9.20 (Epistola de incarnatione verbi); Mews, Reason, 55–98 (no. 6), 4–34 (no. 7). 73. Otto of Freising and Rahewin, Die Taten Friedrichs oder richtiger Cronica, ed. Adolf Schmidt and Franz-­ Josef Schmale (Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1965), 224.29 (c. 1.50): “Roscelin, qui primus nostris temporibus in logica sententiam vocum instituit.” See also John of Salisbury, Metalogicon, ed. J. B. Hall and K. S. B. Keats-­Rohan, CCCM 98 (Turnhout: Brepols, 1991), 81 (c. 2.17.18). For John, however, ­every position held before the advent of the logica nova (and more precisely, the Topics) must have seemed obsolete. Without these texts, one argues randomly rather than methodically (nam sine eo non disputatur arte, sed casu). John of Salisbury, Metalogicon, ed. Hall and Keats-­Rohan, 130–39 (c. 3.10), quote at 131 (c. 3.10.27). 74. Herman of Tournai, Liber de restauratione, 2.275.13–38. The anecdote is treated in Scott G. Bruce, Silence and Sign Language in Medieval Monasticism: The Cluniac Tradition, c. 900–1200 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007), 175. 75. Iwakuma, “Alberic,” 30f.: “Unde sciendum est quod principales nostrae sententiae positiones sunt quatuordecim, quarum quinque consistent in hypotheticis, novem in categoricis.” The corresponding positions follow. 76. The gloss refers to Boethius, De differentiis topicis, PL 64.1173–216. col. 1177B (c. 1). It is quoted in Neils J. Green-­Pedersen, “William of Champeaux on Boethius’ Topics according to Orléans Bibl. Mun. 266,” Cahiers du Moyen–­Âge grec et latin 13 (1974), 13–30, p. 21f.: “Magister tamen W dicit unamquamque propositionem et quaestionem habere duos sensus: unum grammaticum et alium dialecticum. Verbi gratia ‘Socrates est albus’ habet hunc grammaticum ‘Socrates est alba res’ et hunc dialecticum ‘albedo inhaeret Socrati.’ Et iterum haec quaestio ‘utrum Socrates est homo vel non est homo’ habet illum grammaticum quem proprie generat, et hunc dialecticum ‘utrum praedicatum inhaerat subiecto,’ quem hic dicit Boethius esse communem omnibus praedicativis quaestionibus.” Green-­Pedersen notes (p. 15) that one of the glosses names the master as “Wille.” instead of just “W.” and that Abelard attributed this position to his former teacher, William of Champeaux. 77. Abelard, Scritti filosofici, ed. Mario dal Pra (Rome: Fratelli Bocca, 1954), 271.38 (Super topica glossae): “Et profecto praeceptor noster Willelmus ejusque sequaces duos sensus tam in propositionibus quam in quaestionibus assignabant. Quorum unum grammaticum, alterum dialecticum appellabant. Dicebant enim quod cum dicitur ‘Socrates est albus,’ alia est coniunctio rerum quam grammatici, alia quam attendant dialectici.” 78. Green-­Pedersen, “William,” 22. ­W hether this position is “more amusing than cogent” remains an open question. 79. This position is also taken by the con­temporary Pseudo-­Rabanus, whose commentary on the Isagoge may be a product of William’s teaching: “Dividitur enim philosophia in tres partes: physicam, ethicam, logicam.” Iwakuma, “Pseudo-­Rabanus,” 68. On the tripartite division of philosophy into physical, ethical, and logical, as well as alternatives, see Yukio Iwakuma, “The Division of Philosophy and the Place of the Trivium from the 9th  to the Mid-12th  Centuries,” in Medieval Analyses in Language and Cognition: Acts of the Symposium of the Copenhagen School of Medieval Philosophy, January 10–13, 1996, ed. Sten Ebbesen and Russell L. Friedman (Copenhagen: Royal Danish Acad­emy, 1999), 165–89, p. 166. 80. The prime example is Domingo Gundisalvo, De divisione philosophiae, ed. Ludwig Baur (Münster: Aschendorff, 1903). On the under­lying schema, see Alexander Fidora, Die Wissenschaftstheorie des Dominicus Gundissalinus: Voraussetzungen und Konsequenzen des zweiten Anfangs der aristotelischen Philosophie im 12. Jahrhundert (Berlin: Akademie, 2003). On the

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scientific teaching of the time, a theme that has been worked on intensively, see the lit­er­a­ture in Frank Rexroth, “Wahr oder nützlich? Epistemische Ordnung und institutionelle Praxis an den Universitäten des 13. und 14. Jahrhunderts,” in Wissenschaft mit Zukunft: Die “alte” Kölner Universität im Kontext der europäischen Universitätsgeschichte, ed. Andreas Speer and Andreas Berger (Cologne: Böhlau, 2016), 87–114, pp. 94–96. 81. Alan of Lille, Regulae theologiae, ed. Andreas Niederberger and Miriam Pahlsmeier (Freiburg im Breisgau: Herder, 2009), 48: “Omnis scientia suis nititur regulis velut propriis fundamentis et, ut de gramatica taceamus quae tota est in hominum beneplacitis et voluntate et de eius regulis quae sunt in sola hominum positione, cetere scientiae proprias habent regulas quibus nituntur et quasi quibusdam certis terminis clauduntur.” 82. Mews, Reason, 4–34 (no. 7), esp. 12–16 for the given example. 83. Margaret Gibson, “The Early Scholastic Glosule to Priscian, Institutiones Grammaticae: The Text and its Influence,” Studi medievali 20 (1979), 237–54, p. 250.54. On grammar as a division of logic in the scientific doctrine of the vocalists, see Iwakuma, “Division,” 178. 84. On Abelard’s claim that Aristotle’s work would likely remain the standard reference text even though it was easy to surpass in the pre­sent (!), see Chapter 5. 85. Southern, Scholastic Humanism, 1.185–89. 86. Accessus ad auctores: Bernard d’Utrecht, Conrad d’Hirsau; Dialogus super auctores, ed. Robert B. C. Huygens (Leiden: Brill, 1970), 66.203: “moderni . . . ​, qui quanto tempore posteriores, tanto indagatione sunt discretiores.” See also Mews, “Logica,” 97f.; On the formula of Priscian, see Hubert Silvestre, “Quanto ju­niores, tanto perspicaciores: Antécédents à la Querelle des Anciens et des Modernes,” in Recueil commémoratif du Xe anniversaire de la Faculté de Philosophie et Lettres (Louvain: Nauwelaerts, 1968), 231–55. 87. On the case of nominalized verbs, see Mews, “Logica,” 101. 88. Green-­Pedersen, “William,” 27 (Fragment 18). See also Jacobi, “William,” 265f. 89. Giraud and Mews, “Liber,” 148 (quote). See also Giraud, Verba, 503: “Incipit liber pancrisis id est totus aureus, quia hic auree continentur sententie vel questiones sanctorum patrum Augustini, Jheronimi, Ambrosii, Gregorii, Ysidori, Bede et modernorum magistrorum Guillelmi Catalaunensis episcopi, Ivonis Carnotensis episcopi, Anselmi et fratris eius Radulfi.” 90. Giraud, Verba, 503–5 (nos. 1–10), 516 (nos. 87–94). 91. Giraud and Mews, “Liber,” 148; Giraud, Verba, 503: “Sententie vel questiones sanctorum Augustini, Jeronimi, Ambrosii, Gregorii, Isidori, Bede extracte vel expositae a modernis magistris Guillelmo, Anselmo, Radulfo, Ivone Carnotensi episcopo.” 92. Further examples: “Therefore, Aristotle lies in his book, which is unusual.” Yukio Iwakuma, “Masters Named in the Logical Texts ­After ca. 1120,” http://­w ww​.­s​.­f pu​.­ac​.­jp​/­iwakuma​ /­papers​/­MastersII​.­pdf (accessed May 9, 2022), 13.40. “When one says ‘Socrates is a person, Plato is a phi­los­o­pher, and the sun is not in the sky,’ then he is lying.” Iwakuma, “Masters,” 15.13. See also 17.25. A practical white lie is reported by the students of Anselm. When their master passed away, they kept news of his death from his ­mother for three days out of fear that she would not survive the pain. They lied to her, saying that he had gone to visit the archbishop. Giraud, “Anselm,” 338. 93. Manegold of Lautenbach, Liber contra Wolfelmum, ed. Hartmann, 54–57 (c. 6). 94. Guitmund of Aversa, De corporis veritate, col. 1427C (c. 1). 95. Robert Somerville, “The Case Against Berengar of Tours: A New Text,” Studi Gregoriani 9 (1972), 55–75, p. 58: “Contra spurcissimas Berengarii eiusque successorum voces.” 96. Anselm of Canterbury, Opera, 2.3–10 (Epistola de incarnatione verbi); Constant  J. Mews and Clare Monagle, “Theological Dispute and the Conciliar Pro­cess 1050–1150,” in Ecclesia disputans: Die Konfliktpraxis vormoderner Synoden, ed. Christoph Dartmann and Andreas Pietsch (Berlin: Oldenbourg, 2015), 127–57, pp. 140–47. 97. Abelard, Dialectica, ed. Lambert Marie de Rijk, 2nd  ed. (Assen: Van Gorcum, 1970), 554.37 (c. 5): “Fuit autem, memini, magistri nostri Roscellini tam insana sententia ut nullam



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rem partibus constare vellet, sed sicut solis vocibus species, ita et partes adscribebat.” He then refutes this teacher’s opinions. 98. Niklas Luhmann, Die Wissenschaft der Gesellschaft (Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buch­ gesellschaft, 2002), 253. Herein lies the idea of science’s “or­ga­nized skepticism.” Merton, Science, 614f. 99. Boethius, In Isagogen Porphyrii commenta, ed. Samuel Brandt, CSEL 48 (Vienna: Tempsky, 1906), 163.18 (c. 1.10): “id est enim falsum quod aliter atque res est intellegitur.” 100. Iwakuma, “Pseudo-­Rabanus,” 77–83, on the relevant passage. On p. 191 is the only evidence of the verb falsificare in the commentary. 101. Aristotle, Philosophische Schriften, trans. Eugen Rolfes et al., 6 vols. (Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1995), 1.1 (Peri Hermeneias 16a). See also Boethius, Commentarii in librum Aristotelis Peri hermeneias, ed. Karl Meiser (Leipzig: Teubner, 1877), 43–45. On the so-­called Literal Glosses, which are traditionally ascribed to Abelard, see the Editio super Aristotelem de Interpretatione in Abelard, Scritti filosofici, ed. Dal Pra, 75. For doubt on this attribution, see Martin, “Note,” 640f. 102. “Propositio est oratio verum falsumve significans.” As cited in Sten Ebbesen, “An Argument Is a Soul,” in Arts du langage, ed. Rosier-­Catach, 695–708, p. 700, including a gloss of Arnulf of Laon (?). Abelard attempts to distinguish dialectic from sophistry in his Letter 13, which is discussed in Chapter 5. 103. Grondeux and Rosier-­Catach, “Glosule,” 162. 104. Iwakuma, “Vocales” (1992), 72f. 105. Gerland of Besançon, cited in Tweedale, “Logic,” 198. 106. Grondeux and Rosier-­Catach, “Glosule,” 142–47, examples on 143, 146f. 107. Steckel, Kulturen, 49; Claire Nouvet, “Abélard ou l’hyperbole parricide,” in Pierre Abélard: Colloque international de Nantes, ed. Jean Jolivet and Henri Habrias (Rennes: Presses Universitaires de Rennes, 2003), 49–61. 108. Green-­Pedersen, “William,” 22, 27. 109. On Roscelin, see Abelard, Dialectica, ed. De Rijk, 554.37 (c. 5); Jean Jolivet, “Trois variations médiévales sur l’universel et l’individu: Roscelin, Abélard, Gilbert de la Porrée,” Revue de métaphysique et de morale 97 (1992), 111–55. On William, see Mews, “Logica,” 85f. 110. Andrew Arlig, “Early Medieval Solutions to some Mereological Puzzles: The Content and Unity of the De generibus et speciebus,” in Arts du langage, ed. Rosier-­Catach, 485–508, pp. 489–93, p. 493: “I propose that we understand the second solution as an attempt to improve upon William’s proposed solution.” 111. Giraud and Mews, “Liber,” 179. 112. Giraud and Mews, “Liber,” 180, n. 137. On Laurence’s letter that precedes the Sententiae de divinitate, see Ambrogio Piazzoni, “Ugo di San Vittore auctor delle Sententie de Divinitate,” Studi medievali 23 (1983), 861–955, p. 912f. 113. Giraud and Mews, “Liber,” 181. 114. Gilbert Crispin, The Works of Gilbert Crispin, ed. Anna Sapir Abulafia and Gillian Rosemary Evans (London: Oxford University Press, 1986), 61–87. An overview of the genre of philosophical-­theological teaching debates can be found in the cata­log of Mischa von Perger, “Vorläufiges Repertorium philosophischer und theologischer Prosa-­Dialoge des lateinischen Mittelalters: Von Minucius Felix bis Nikolaus von Kues,” in Gespräche lesen: Philosophische Dialoge im Mittelalter, ed. Klaus Jacobi (Tübingen: Narr, 1999), 435–94. This topic is developed in Novikoff, Culture. 115. The allegorical dimension of this account has long guided the interpretation of the debate. Richard W. Southern, “St. Anselm and Gilbert Crispin, Abbot of Westminster,” Mediaeval and Re­nais­sance Studies 3 (1954), 78–115, pp. 95–97 especially; Klaus Jacobi, “Gilbert Crispin: Zwischen Realität und Fiktion,” in Gespräche lesen: Philosophische Dialoge im Mittelalter, ed. Klaus Jacobi

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(Tübingen: Narr, 1999), 125–37, pp.  131–37; Michael Borgolte, “Christen und Juden im Disput: Mittelalterliche Religionsgespräche im ‘Spatial Turn,’ ” HZ 286 (2008), 359–402, pp. 389–92. 116. Iwakuma, “Division,” 172–174. On Gilbert’s efforts in grammar and logic, see Gillian Rosemary Evans, “Gilbert Crispin, Abbot of Westminster: The Forming of a Monastic Scholar,” Studia monastica 22 (1980), 63–81, p. 74f. 117. Peter Damian’s treatment of divine omnipotence goes back to a conversation that began around a ­table. He and his comrades realized that ­t here was a difference in opinion only ­because the situation had allowed Peter and his friend Desiderius of Montecassino to speak openly with their guard down. Peter Damian, Briefe, ed. Reindel, MGH BdK 4.3.343.11 (Ep. 119). The argument between Manegold and Wolfhelm began “in the garden of Lautenbach” when the two ­were discussing scripture “in the manner of scholars” (more scolarium) and discovered differences of opinion in the pro­cess. Manegold of Lautenbach, Liber contra Wolfelmum, ed. Hartmann, 39 (pref.). Their debate was not confined to introductory topics (p. 13f.). Gilbert Crispin’s Disputation Between a Christian and a Jew begins when God grants the two friends “more leisure than usual.” Gilbert Crispin, Works, ed. Abulafia and Evans, 9.4: “Quadam ergo die, solito maius mihi et illi Deus ocium concessit, et mox, unde solebamus, inter nos questionari cepimus.” In each case, the controversy emerges out of leisure and familiarity—or even friendship. It was also in a l­ittle garden where Bruno of Cologne and his friends de­cided in the late 1070s to leave the world ­behind. In Bruno’s account, the enthusiasm with which they spoke is easy to sense. Giles Constable, “Saint Bruno of Cologne and Solitude,” in Truth as Gift: Studies in Medieval Cistercian History in Honor of John R. Sommerfeldt, ed. Marsha L. Dutton, Daniel M. La Corte, and Paul Lockey (Kalamazoo, Mich.: Cistercian, 2004), 27–41, p. 38. 118. Gilbert Crispin, Works, ed. Abulafia and Evans, 81.83–85. 119. Norbert Fickermann, ed., “Regensburger rhetorische Briefe,” in Briefsammlungen der Zeit Heinrichs IV., ed. Karl Erdmann and Norbert Fickermann, MGH BdK 5 (Weimar: Böhlau, 1950), 259–382. On this text, see John van Engen, “Letters, Schools, and Written Culture in the Eleventh and Twelfth Centuries,” in Dialektik und Rhetorik im früheren und hohen Mittelalter: Rezeption, Überlieferung und gesellschaftliche Wirkung antiker Gelehrsamkeit vornehmlich im 9. und 12. Jahrhundert, ed. Johannes Fried (Munich: Oldenbourg, 1997), 97–132, p. 119f.

Chapter 5 1. It could very well be characterized as a cultural “explosion” along the lines of Jurij M. Lotman, Culture and Explosion (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2009). 2. Marcia  L. Colish, Studies in Scholasticism (Aldershot: Ashgate Variorum, 2006), 146f. (no.  1): “He was one of t­hose thinkers congenitally unable to finish anything he started. His three theologiae, each of which exists in several fragmentary versions, all announce an agenda, but none follows through” (emphasis Rexroth). A critique of the research on dating follows. “What we have, then, is a series of fragments, in which the author’s full and final views are not stated, but which tell us what he thought, at one time or another, about the Trinity, Christology, ethics, and the few sacraments he was interested in. The other theological concerns of the day he ­either has no opinions on, or never gets around to discussing.” It ­w ill be argued in this chapter that Peter did actually think in terms of his oeuvre as a w ­ hole rather than just individual works. 3. On con­temporary reception of Abelard’s works, see David  E. Luscombe, The School of Peter Abelard: The Influence of Abelard’s Thought in the Early Scholastic Period (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1969), 1–13; Peter Dronke, Abelard and Heloise in Medieval Testimonies (Glasgow: University of Glasgow Press, 1976); Michael T. Clanchy, Abelard: A Medieval Life (Oxford: Wiley-­Blackwell, 1997), 1–6 and passim; Münster-­Swendsen, “Model,” 334–38. On the shifts in views on Heloise’s letters to Abelard, see AHLett. XVIIf. 4. On the historical status of the “event,” see Andreas Suter and Manfred Hettling, “Struktur und Ereignis: Wege zu einer Sozialgeschichte des Ereignisses,” in Struktur und Ereignis, ed.



Notes to Pages 95–96

269

Andreas Suter and Manfred Hettling (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2001), 7–32; Edgar Morin, “Le retour de l’événement,” in L’Événement, ed. Edgar Morin (Paris: Seuil, 1972), 6–20. 5. Epitaphia Abaelardi, PL 178.103–06. col. 103D: “Ille sciens quidquid fuit ulli scibile, vicit / Artifices, artes absque docente docens. / Undecimae Maii Petrum rapuere Kalendae, / Privantes logices atria rege suo. / Est satis in tumulo, Petrus sic iacet Abaelardus, / Cui soli patuit scibile quidquid erat.” Artifices, rendered imperfectly ­here as “artists,” has a derogatory meaning and serves as a foil to Abelard’s genius. The idea that he taught absque docente feeds into his self-­image as one who owed nothing to his teachers and who produced all his knowledge for himself. 6. Abelard, Dialectica, ed. De Rijk, 59.1 (c. 1.2): “Afferunt quoque adversus hanc constitutionem linee quod de punctis est, quod in ‘Arithmetica’ Boetius ponit, cum scilicet ait: ‘Si punctum puncto superponas, nichil efficies, tamquam si nichilum nichilo iungas.’ Cuius quidem obiectionis, etsi multas ab arithmeticis solutiones audierim, nullam tamen a me proferendam iudico, quem eius artis ignarum omnino recognosco.” It was l­ ater said that he took “secret” lessons with Master Theodoric in order to make up for this deficiency. Mews, Reason, 171–73 (no. 4). On this report, which seems at a point to confuse Abelard with Adelard of Bath, see Mews, Reason, 187 (no. 4); AHLett. 69, n. 138. 7. For an evaluation of Peter King’s unpublished dissertation, which declared Abelard’s philosophy of language to be the forerunner of twentieth-­century analytic philosophy, see Marenbon, Abelard, 149–66. 8. Marenbon, Medieval Philosophy, 132. On his intersection between ideas of justice and common utility, see Abelard, Opera theologica VI: Sententie Magistri Petri Abaelardi, Liber Sententiarum Magistri Petri, ed. David Luscombe and Constant  J. Mews, CCCM 14 (Turnhout: Brepols, 2006), 134f. (c. 256); Kenneth Pennington, “Lex naturalis and ius naturale,” in Crossing Bound­aries at Medieval Universities, ed. Spencer E. Young (Leiden: Brill, 2011), 227–53, p. 234. 9. John of Salisbury and Otto of Freising, who both reported on Gilbert’s conflict with Bernard of Clairvaux, left no doubt that it was a b ­ attle between the two greatest thinkers alive at the time. John of Salisbury, Historia pontificalis, ed. Marjorie Chibnall (Oxford: Clarendon, 2002), 15–27; Otto of Freising, Taten Friedrichs, ed. Schmidt and Schmale, 236.22–27 (c. 1.53). Clarembald of Arras was the exception: Suitbert Gammersbach, Gilbert von Poitiers und seine Prozesse im Urteil der Zeitgenossen (Cologne: Böhlau, 1959), 48. 10. The quote from the commentary In primis is cited from Mews, “Logica,” 94, n. 78. On the commentary, see Caiazzo, “Manegold”; John  O. Ward and Karen Margareta Fredborg, “Rhe­ toric in the Time of William of Champeaux,” in Arts du langage, ed. Rosier-­Catach, 219–33. The author and date are disputed, but the reference to Abelard h ­ ere seems certain to me even if Heloise was not yet a nun at the time of the castration. 11. Jacques de Vitry, Die Exempla aus den Sermones feriales et communes, ed. Joseph Greven (Heidelberg: Winter, 1914), 36 (Exemplum 53). 12. Yukio Iwakuma and Sten Ebbesen, “Logico-­Theological Schools from the Second Half of the 12th ­Century: A List of Sources,” Vivarium 30 (1992), 173–210. See also Luscombe, School, 143; Colish, Studies, 147 (no. 1). 13. The Historia calamitatum and the letters between Abelard and Heloise ­w ill be cited according to the new critical edition of David Luscombe (AHLett.). I consider the letters to be thoroughly au­t hen­tic: the ones attributed to Abelard ­were written by him, and the same goes for the ones attributed to Heloise. An editorial revision may have taken place that introduced an overall narrative framework, as Peter von Moos explored several de­cades ago: Peter von Moos, Mittelalterforschung und Ideologiekritik: Der Gelehrtenstreit um Héloise (Munich: Fink, 1974), 164–67. 14. Otto of Freising, Taten Friedrichs, ed. Schmidt and Schmale, 226.6 (c. 1.50): “Ubi occasione quadam satis nota non bene tractatus monachus in monasterio sancti Dionisii effectus est.” On the popularity of Abelard and Heloise, see Dronke, Abelard.

270

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15. As did Hugo Metellus, another student of Anselm of Laon. Constant J. Mews, “Hugh Metel, Heloise, and Abelard: The Letters of an Augustinian Canon and the Challenge of Innovation in Twelfth-­Century Lorraine,” Viator 32 (2001), 59–91, p. 67. 16. Clanchy, Abelard. See also Franz-­Josef Arlinghaus, “Petrus Abaelardus als Kronzeuge der ‘Individualität’ im 12. Jahrhundert: Einige Fragen,” in Zwischen Pragmatik und Performanz: Dimensionen mittelalterlicher Schriftkultur, eds. Christoph Dartmann, Thomas Scharff, and Christoph Friedrich Weber (Turnhout: Brepols, 2011), 165–97. 17. On the jargon of knighthood, see below. On the irritating comments on poetry, see David E. Luscombe, “Peter Abelard and the Poets,” in Poetry and Philosophy in the ­Middle Ages: A Festschrift for Peter Dronke, ed. John Marenbon (Leiden: Brill, 2001), 155–71. On the disparaging remarks about the “trifling assumptions” of dialectic, see Moos, Gesammelte Studien 3, 304f. 18. Bernard of Clairvaux, Sämtliche Werke, 3.128f. (Ep. 193): “Magister Petrus Abaelardus, sine regula monachus, sine sollicitudine praelatus, nec ordinem tenet, nec tenetur ab ordine. Homo sibi dissimilis est, intus Herodes, foris Ioannes, totus ambiguus, nihil habens de monacho praeter nomen et habitum.” 19. Roscelin of Compiègne, Epistola ad Petrum, PL 178.370D: “Quia igitur, suscepto habitu, doctoris officium mendacia docendo usurpasti.” Otto of Freising noted too that Abelard, unlike Gilbert of Poitiers, who followed the proper educational path, had no true teachers. Otto of Freising, Taten Friedrichs, ed. Schmidt and Schmale, 224.26 (c. 1.50). 20. For studies on his reception, see AHLett. XVIIf. On his position in the historiography of atheism, see Weltecke, Narr, 569. ­Whether reception ­really has subsided since the 1970s needs to be investigated further b ­ ecause of the possibility of a concurrent rise in citations in other media, such as film. See, for example David Chase, The Sopranos, ep. 58, “Sentimental Education” (2004). As with Otto of Freising, ­there is reference ­here to Abelard’s catastrophe: if the mafia boss, Tony Soprano, found out about his wife’s affair, castration would be the best-­case scenario her lover could hope for. Abelard’s instruction of Heloise (referenced in the title of the episode) and the motive of confession (Carmela’s interactions with the ravenous ­Father Intintola) pretty much sum up the events of 1117–18. 21. The former, as a master, was both a celebrity and a person worthy of re­spect. Guibert of Nogent, Autobiographie, ed. Labande, 290 (c. 3.4), 420 (c. 3.15). Giraud and Mews, “Liber,” 177. 22. Marenbon, Abelard, 11–14. 23. For a nuanced take on the importance of disputation in Abelard’s work, see Novikoff, Culture, 76–90. 24. Luhmann, Love as Passion, 11. 25. Jürgen Miethke, “Theologenprozesse in der ersten Phase ihrer institutionellen Ausbildung: Die Verfahren gegen Peter Abaelard und Gilbert von Poitiers,” Viator 6 (1975), 87–116, p. 115, for a summary of the findings. See also Mews and Monagle, “Dispute.” For recent work on ­trials of scholars and the punishment procedures at the universities, see Jan-­Hendryk de Boer, “Zensur und Lehrverurteilungen,” in Universitäre Gelehrtenkultur, ed. Boer, Füssel, and Schuh, 357–86; Jan-­Hendryk de Boer, Unerwartete Absichten: Genealogie des Reuchlinkonflikts (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2016), 192–215; Gregory S. Moule, Corporate Jurisdiction, Academic Heresy, and Fraternal Correction at the University of Paris, 1200–1400 (Leiden: Brill, 2016); Andrew E. Larsen, The School of Heretics: Academic Condemnation at the University of Oxford, 1277–1409 (Leiden: Brill, 2011). On the treatment of speech at the trial of Gilbert of Poitiers in 1148, see Rexroth, “Fehltritte.” An in­ter­est­ing proj­ect would be to chart the gradual differentiation of scholarly speech and everyday speech in disputation. Novikoff, Culture; Weijers, Search. See also Jan-­ Hendryk de Boer, “Disputation, quaestio disputata,” in Universitäre Gelehrtenkultur, ed. Boer, Füssel, and Schuh, 221–54. 26. AHLett. 2 (Ep. 1.1): “ut in comparatione mearum tuas aut nullas aut modicas temptationes recognoscas et tolerabilius feras.” See also Markus Asper, “Leidenschaften und ihre Leser: Abae-



Notes to Pages 98–102

271

lard, Heloise und die Rezeptionsforschung,” in Abaelards Historia calamitatum: Lateinischer Text und deutsche Übersetzung, ed. Dag Nikolaus Hasse (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2002), 105–40, p. 110; Charles Stephen Jaeger, “The Prologue to the Historia calamitatum and the ‘Authenticity Question,’ ” Euphorion 74 (1980), 1–15. 27. On the history of the f­ amily, see Werner Robl, “Zwischen Gottfried Graumantel und Peter Abaelard: Der Donjon von Le Pallet und seine Herren im Spiegel der Zeitgeschichte,” http://­w ww​.­heimatforschung​-­regensburg​.­de​/­500​/­1​/­pallet​.­pdf (accessed May 25, 2022). On the coexistence of Norman and Breton families in Nantes, see Mews, Reason, 194f. (no. 4). See ­t here too the detailed assessment of his name in the context of his theory of naming as discussed in the Dialectica. 28. AHLett. 8 (Ep. 1.5): “ex immoderata studii afflictione correptus infirmitate coactus sum repatriare.” 29. Abelard, “Carmen ad Astralabium: A Critical Edition,” ed. Josepha Marie Annais Rubingh-­Bosscher (PhD diss., Rijksuniversiteit Groningen, 1987), 107.1. 30. AHLett. 44 (Ep. 1.29). 31. AHLett. 72 (Ep. 1.45). 32. AHLett. 82 (Ep. 1.52). 33. AHLett. 90 (Ep. 1.58), p. 91, on the identification of the quorumdam quasi novorum apostolorum. On Bernard as the secret pope, see Peter Classen, Gerhoch von Reichersberg: Eine Bio­ graphie mit einem Anhang über die Quellen, ihre handschriftliche Überlieferung und ihre Chronologie (Wiesbaden: Steiner, 1960), 152. 34. Marenbon, Abelard, which summarizes much of Marenbon’s older work. See also John Marenbon, The Philosophy of Peter Abelard (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997); Marenbon, “Life.” Studies on Abelard by Mews are gathered in Mews, Abelard; Mews, Reason. Dated by now are Damian van den Eynde, “Chronologie des écrits d’Abélard à Héloïse,” Antonianum 37 (1962), 17–54, 337–49; Damian van den Eynde, “Les écrits perdus d’Abélard,” Antonianum 37 (1962), 467–80; Denifle, “Sentenzen.” Marenbon’s 2013 book summarizes the current state of research on Abelard’s philosophy, giving much credit to the studies of Mews. 35. On the basics of the two revisions of the Theologiae, see Marenbon, Abelard, 20–24. 36. Abelard, Sic et non, ed. Blanche B. Boyer and Richard McKeon (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1976–77), 89 (prol.). 37. Abelard, Dialectica, ed. De Rijk, 151.15 (c. 2.1), 319.1 (c. 3.1). 38. Gerland of Besançon, who also seems to have been an entertainer, may be considered a forerunner of Abelard to some degree. Marenbon, Medieval Philosophy, 133. 39. Recensions 2 and 3 emerged in this way. Abelard, Carmen ad Astralabium, ed. Bosscher, 53–65; Carsten Wollin, “Neue Textzeugen des Carmen ad Astralabium des Petrus Abaelardus,” Sacris erudiri 46 (2007), 187–240, p.  189f. especially, pp.  217–20, on the Old French component. 40. John F. Benton, “The Correspondence of Abelard and Heloise,” in Fälschungen im Mittelalter, Teil 5: Fingierte Briefe, Frömmigkeit und Fälschung, Realienfälschungen, MGH Schriften 33.5 (Hanover: Hahnsche Buchhandlung, 1988), 95–120; Hubert Silvestre, “Die Liebesgeschichte zwischen Abaelard und Heloise: Der Anteil des Romans,” in Fälschungen im Mittelalter, Teil 5: Fingierte Briefe, Frömmigkeit und Fälschung, Realienfälschungen, MGH Schriften 33.5 (Hanover: Hahnsche Buchhandlung, 1988), 121–65; Moos, Mittelalterforschung; Peter von Moos, “Heloise und Abaelard,” in Gefälscht! Betrug in Politik, Literatur, Wissenschaft, Kunst und Musik, ed. Karl Corino (Frankfurt am Main: Eichborn, 1990), 150–61. 41. Although some w ­ ill always suspect forgery in such cases, the possibility has been largely dismissed h ­ ere. It was not the subtle linguistic analy­sis that proved decisive, but the evidence that facts and motives addressed in the letters have clear parallels in other sources. Known already in Dronke, Abelard. Also significant is the overlap between the biographical and scientific

272

Notes to Pages 102–104

work: Luscombe, School and AHLett. Fi­nally, the literary structure employed in the correspondence seems entirely plausible: Peter von Moos, Gesammelte Studien zum Mittelalter, vol. 1: Abaelard und Heloise, ed. Gert Melville (Münster: LIT, 2005); Moos, Mittelalterforschung; Moos, “Heloise.” 42. On the manuscripts, see AHLett. XXXVIII–­L XXXI. On consolation lit­er­a­ture, see Peter von Moos, Consolatio: Studien zur mittelalterlichen Trostliteratur über den Tod und zum Prob­lem der christlichen Trauer, 4 vols. (Munich: Fink, 1971–72). 43. AHLett. XXVIII–­X XX; Asper, “Leidenschaften,” 109–22, on the direct reception; p. 112 on the “narrative structure which describes the path of the sinner from distance to God to proximity to God—­a conversion narrative.” See also Moos, “Heloise”; Karl Schmid, “Bemerkungen zur Personen-­und Memorialforschung nach dem Zeugnis von Abaelard und Heloise,” in Memoria in der Gesellschaft des Mittelalters, ed. Dieter Geuenich and Otto Gerhard Oexle (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1994), 74–127. On the literary unity and transmission of the Paraclete texts, including Letters 9 and 10, the Problemata Heloissae, Abelard’s Expositio in Hexaemeron, and his sermons and hymns, see the introduction in AHLett. The often-­discussed Epistolae duorum amantium is generally excluded ­today: AHLett. XXXII–­X XXIV. Letters 1 to 8 and Abelard’s Rule also form a special unit within this transmission group, as the manuscripts themselves make clear. Medieval readers and listeners seem to have been well aware that the sequence from the Historia calamitatum to the Rule contained a comprehensive narrative arc. 44. AHLett. 34–42, 132 (Ep. 1.24–26, 2.10): “Et si uxoris nomen sanctius ac validius videtur, dulcius mihi semper extitit amice vocabulum aut, si non indigneris, concubine vel scorti.” See also Asper, “Leidenschaften,” 125. 45. AHLett, 52 (Ep. 1.34). 46. AHLett. 256–58 (Ep. 6.33). 47. Schmid, “Bemerkungen,” 81, 91, 108. 48. Clanchy, Abelard, 139–45; Marco Mostert, “De disputatio als tweegevecht van de geest: Over twaalfde-­eeuwse krijgers en intellectuelen,” in Middeleeuwse cultuur: Verscheidenheit, spanning en verandering, ed. Marco Mostert, Rudi Künzel, and Albert Demyttenaere (Hilversum: Verloren, 1994), 131–62; Andrew Taylor, “A Second Ajax: Peter Abelard and the Vio­lence of Dialectic,” in The Tongue of the F ­ athers: Gender and Ideology in Twelfth-­Century Latin, ed. David Townsend and Andrew Taylor (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1998), 14–34. Syntagmatic and paradigmatic interpretations—­i.e., its reference to the “world” outside of the text and its narrative function—­must be kept equally in mind as we read the Historia as a source for social relationships within Peter’s school. On Abelard’s recréantise, which would also become a motif in the Arthurian romances of Chrétien de Troyes and Hartmann von Aue, see already Étienne Gilson, Héloise et Abélard (Paris: Vrin, 1964), 22f.: “Son cas [d’Abélard] illustre à merveille ce que les auteurs des romans courtois nommerent le chevalier ‘recréant.’ La passion non satisfaite est une source d’exaltation et d’héroïsme, mais la victoire de l’amant est souvent cause de la déchéance. Abélard, oublie désormais ses devoirs, néglige ses cours et délaisse ses écoles.” 49. Moos, Gesammelte Studien 1, 9–47. 50. Clanchy, Abelard, 13; Hubert Silvestre, “Pourquoi Roscelin n’est-il pas mentionné dans l’Historia calamitatum?,” Recherches de théologie anciénne et médiévale 48 (1981), 218–24. 51. For an overview of Abelard’s teachers before his time with William of Champeaux, see AHLett. 519–21. 52. Clanchy, Abelard, 81. 53. Abelard, Sic et non, ed. Boyer and McKeon, 89–96 (prol.); Marenbon, Abelard, 14; Constant J. Mews, “Abelard and His Contemporaries on Faith: From the Sic et non to the Theologia Scholarium and Beyond,” in Fides virtus: The Virtue of Faith from the Twelfth to the Early Sixteenth ­Century, ed. Marco Forlivesi, Riccardo Quinto, and Silvana Vecchio (Münster: Aschendorff, 2014), 137–50, p. 143.



Notes to Pages 104–106

273

54. See both cata­logs of works in Marenbon, Abelard, 254–58 (with up-­to-­date dates); AHLett. 537–51 (slightly dif­fer­ent from Marenbon). For an overview of the manuscript transmission, see Julia Barrow, Charles S. F. Burnett, and David E. Luscombe, “A Checklist of the Manuscripts Containing the Writings of Peter Abelard and Heloise and Other Works Closely associated with Abelard and His School,” Revue d’histoire des textes 14–15 (1984–85), 183–301. The chronology of t­ hese works has been a main concern of Constant Mews, especially Mews, Abelard, 73–134 (no. 7). 55. Marenbon, Abelard, 22. 56. Edited by Mews, in Abelard, Opera theologica VI, ed. Luscombe and Mews, 153–71, pp. 155–57; on the polemic of William of Saint-­Th ierry and Bernard of Clairvaux against this text, p. 158f.: “The liber sententiarum may have been compiled by an amanuensis or a student attending classes.” On Abelard’s distancing from the text, see Charles S. F. Burnett, “Peter Abelard, Confessio fidei Universis: A Critical Edition of Abelard’s Reply to Accusations of Heresy,” Mediaeval Studies 48 (1986), 111–38, pp. 132–34; Abelard, Opera theologica II: Theologia Christiana, Theologia Scholarium (recensiones breviores), Capitula haeresum Petri Abaelardi, ed. Eligius M. Buytaert, CCCM 12 (Turnhout: Brepols, 1969), 341–68. See also Mews, “Council,” 367. 57. On Gilbert’s distancing from his students’ texts that threatened to doom him at Reims in 1148, see John of Salisbury, Historia pontificalis, ed. Chibnall, 22. 58. Discussed further in Chapter 6. 59. Thirty-­seven forms of Abelard’s name are recorded in Luscombe, School, 315. This list is expanded in Mews, Reason, 171–200 (no. 4). The name was not entirely unique (p. 193, n. 84). See also Werner Robl, “Das Rätsel eines Namens: Abaelardus 2001,” http://­w ww​.­abaelard​.­de​ /­070101abaelardus​.­htm (accessed May  25, 2022). On con­temporary naming conventions, see Clanchy, Abelard, 12. Clanchy suggests that Abelard was his “stage name for use in the lecture room.” 60. Martin, “Note,” 606f.; John of Salisbury, Metalogicon, ed. Hall and Keats-­Rohan, 20 (c. 1.5.13). A direct reference to the first peripatetic, Aristotle, is found at p. 20 (c. 2.2.31), p. 81 (c. 2.17.22): “In hac autem opinione deprehensus est Peripateticus Palatinus Abaelardus noster.” John also used this label at John of Salisbury, Policraticus, ed. Webb, 1.124.20 and 1.129.13 (2.22, 450c/453c). John’s opinion, which was aimed at the palatium and the urbanitas that ruled t­ here, resembles the complaint of Philologia in the Metamorphosis Goliae, which was written soon ­a fter Abelard’s death: she had lost her palatinus, her Abelard! Robert  B.  C. Huygens, “Mitteilungen aus Handschriften,” Studi medievali 3 (1962), 747–72, p. 771.213. 61. Anselm of Canterbury, Opera, ed. Schmitt, 2.42.8 (Cur deus homo, pref.). 62. On the Porphyry glosses, see Abelard, Peter Abaelards philosophische Schriften, ed. Bernhard Geyer, 4 vols. (Münster: Aschendorff, 1919–33), 505. The commentary on Paul is called a gloss collection in one of the manuscripts: Abelard, Opera theologica I: Commentaria in epistolam Pauli ad Romanos, Apologia contra Bernardum, ed. Eligius M. Buytaert, CCCM 11 (Turnhout: Brepols, 1969), 41. On the “Tractatus eiusdem [Abaelardi] super dominicam orationem,” see Charles  S.  F. Burnett, “The Expositio Orationis Dominicae ‘Multorum legimus orationes’: Abelard’s Exposition of the Lord’s Prayer,” Revue Bénédictine 95 (1985), 60–72, p. 66. 63. On the reaction of William of Saint-­Thierry, see the last section of Chapter 6. Nikolaus Martin Häring, “Die vierzehn Capitula heresum Petri Abaelardi,” Cîteaux 31 (1980), 35–52, p. 52: “Hec sunt capitula Theologie, immo stultilogie, Petri Abaelardi.” In one of the manuscripts, immo stultilogie was erased. On the term theologia, see Oswald Bayer and Albrecht Peters, “Theologie,” Historisches Wörterbuch der Philosophie 10 (1998), cols. 1080–95. On its meaning to Abelard and Gilbert of Poitiers, see col. 1082f. The “frivology” comes from Hugo Metellus, Epistolae, in Sacrae antiquitatis monumenta historica, dogmatica, diplomatica, vol. 2, ed. Charles Louis Hugo (St.-­Dié: Heller, 1731), 312–412, p. 331 (Ep. 3): “Si quis hoc plene cognoscere desiderat, Theologiam illius immo frivologiam legat.”

274

Notes to Pages 106–109

64. Abelard, Scito te ipsum, ed. Rainer M. Ilgner, Fontes Christiani 44 (Turnhout: Brepols, 2011), 6–10; William of Saint-­Th ierry, Opera omnia, vol. 5: Opuscula contra Petrum Abaelardum et de fide, ed. Paul Verdeyen, CCCM 89A (Turnhout: Brepols, 2007), 14f. (Ep. Contra Abel. 4). The letter is discussed further in the last section of Chapter 6. Abelard touches on ethical questions most often in his broader theological works: Marenbon, Medieval Philosophy, 145–48. 65. Abelard, Dialectica, ed. De Rijk, 448.3 (c. 3.2): “Huius autem supraposite argumentationis sophistice solutionem primus ‘Fantasiarum’ nostrarum liber plene continet.” “Fantasia” is used ­here synonymously with “fallacia.” P. xiii: The lost work prob­ably dealt with “sophistic rebuttals.” See also David  E. Luscombe, “Peter Abelard,” in A History of Twelfth C ­ entury Western Philosophy, ed. Peter Dronke (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1988), 279–93, p. 282, n. 12. 66. Marenbon, Medieval Philosophy, 139–43. 67. Berengar seems to have worked for the last twenty years of his life (­u ntil 1088) on an unfinished answer to Lanfranc, only a single manuscript of which survives. The editor strug­gled with “how the restless hand of the master keeps adding new arguments, quotes, and tirades into the text, sometimes scratching out entire lines in order to replace them or insert them in some other place where they might lend more argumentative weight in a debate which was officially closed to him and lost long ago.” Berengar of Tours, Rescriptum contra Lanfrancum, ed. Robert B. C. Huygens, CCCM 84 (Turnhout: Brepols, 1988), 31. See also Holopainen, Dialectic, 77. Meanwhile, Anselm of Canterbury writes in the preface to the Cur deus homo that he would have liked to work on the m ­ atter more thoroughly, but the work was practically taken out of his hands. O ­ thers began to copy it before he was even done. Anselm of Canterbury, Opera, ed. Schmitt, 2.42.2 (pref.). 68. On his working habits, see Mews, Abelard, 109–58 (no. 5), 73–134 (no. 7). 69. Abelard, Opera theologica I, ed. Buytaert, 68.714, 69.765, 225.507 (Commentary on Romans, 1.1.19, 1.1.20, 3.8.30). 70. Abelard, Scito te ipsum, ed. Ilgner, 46. See also Novikoff, Culture, 79. 71. Examples from the Logica Ingredientibus: Abelard, Philosophische Schriften, ed. Geyer, 80.22, 291.5. 72. Abelard uses the example of medical experts who have no idea how their medicine works, for example in the Logica “Nostrorum petitioni sociorum”: Glossulae super Porphyrium. Abelard, Philosophische Schriften, ed. Geyer, 505f. 73. Abelard, Dialectica, ed. De Rijk, 469f. (c. 4.1, prol.). 74. Letter 13 in Abelard, Letters IX–­X IV, ed. Smits, 271–77, p. 271: “Invectiva in quendam ignarum Dialectices, qui tamen eius studium reprehendebat, et omnia eius dogmata putabat sophismata et deceptiones.” See also p. 101 of the same volume on the transmission of the text and pp. 172–88 for commentary. 75. On the De ordine section, see Augustine, Contra academicos, De beata vita, De ordine, De magistro, De libero arbitrio, ed. William  M. Green and K.-­D. Daur, CCSL 29 (Turnhout: Brepols, 1970), 128.8 (De ordine 2.13.38). On the use by Abelard, see Abelard, Letters of Abelard, Beyond the Personal, trans. Jan M. Ziolkowski (Washington, D.C.: Catholic University of Amer­ i­ca Press, 2008), 180, n. 10. 76. Die Geschichte vom Leben des Johannes, Abt des Klosters Gorze, ed. Peter Christian Jacobsen, MGH SS rer. Germ. 81 (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 2016), 340f. (c. 83). 77. Abelard speaks of cherries rather than grapes: Abelard, Letters IX–­X IV, ed. Smits, 271. 78. AHLett. 14–16 (Ep. 1.10): “Accessi igitur ad hunc senem, cui magis longevus usus quam ingenium vel memoria nomen comparaverat. Ad quem si quis de aliqua questione pulsandum accederet incertus, redibat incertior. Mirabilis quidem in oculis erat auscultantium, sed nullus in conspectu questionantium. Verborum usum habebat mirabilem, sed sensu contemtibilem et ratione vacuum. Cum ignem accenderet, domum suam fumo implebat, non luce illustrabat.”



Notes to Pages 109–110

275

79. AHLett. 18 (Ep. 1.11): “Indignatus autem respondi non esse mee consuetudinis per usum proficere sed per ingenium.” On the idea of individuality that lies ­behind this statement, see Arlinghaus, “Petrus.” On the role of ingenium in the pro­cess of understanding, see Abelard, Opera theologica III: Theologia Summi boni, Theologia Scholarium, ed. Eligius  M. Buytaert and Constant J. Mews, CCCM 13 (Turnhout: Brepols, 1987), 313 (Theologia “Scholarium,” pref.). 80. Hist. cal. 28 (c. 19). 81. “Quem etiam ita negligentem et tepidum lectio tunc habebat, ut iam nichil ex ingenio sed ex usu cuncta proferrem, nec iam nisi recitator pristinorum essem inventorum, et si qua invenire liceret, carmina essent amatoria, non philosophie secreta.” 82. Roscelin of Compiègne, Epistola ad Petrum, PL 178.368f. 83. Walter J. Ong, Ramus, Method, and the Decay of Dialogue (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1983), 136. 84. Abelard, Sic et non, ed. Boyer and McKeon, 103.332. 85. John of Salisbury, Metalogicon, ed. Hall and Keats-­Rohan, 116 (c. 3.4.34): “Dixisse recolo Peripateticum Palatinum quod verum arbitror, quia facile esset aliquem nostri temporis librum de hac arte componere, qui nullo antiquorum quod ad conceptionem veri, vel ad elegantiam verbi esset inferior. Sed ut auctoritatis favorem sortiretur, aut impossibile aut difficillimum.” 86. Priscian, Institutionum grammaticarum libri XVIII: Ex recensione Martini Hertzii, ed. Heinrich Keil, 2 vols. (Leipzig: Teubner, 1855), 1.1.6. See also Walter Haug, “Die Zwerge auf den Schultern der Riesen: Epochales und typologisches Geschichtsdenken und das Prob­lem der Interferenzen,” in Epochenbewußtsein, ed. Reinhart Herzog and Reinhart Koselleck (Munich: Fink, 1987), 169–94; Silvestre, “Ju­niores.” 87. William of Conches also speaks of the duty of love for one’s teacher. Quote from Münster-­Swendsen, “Model,” 308. We ­w ill encounter more examples of the ideal lifelong bond between student and teacher. The canonization documents of Thomas Aquinas, for example, rec­ord that his teacher Albertus Magnus could not hear the name of his deceased student without bursting into tears. Martin Grabmann, “Die persönlichen Beziehungen des heiligen Thomas von Aquin,” Historisches Jahrbuch 57 (1937), 305–22, p. 308. William of Tocco also rec­ords Thomas’s intense student-­teacher relationships in hagiographic form: William of Tocco, “Hystoria beati Thomae de Aquino,” in Acta Sanctorum (March 7), vol. 1 (Antwerp: Société des Bollandistes, 1668), 657–85. Stephen Langton identified three successive levels of intensity in emerging student-­teacher relationships. The first was cognitio (getting to know each other and studying), which was followed by familiaritas (admission to the familia of masters). Last came the decisive discipulatu[s] vel apostolatu[s], when the student fi­nally acquired a place in the schola. John W. Baldwin, Masters, Princes and Merchants: The Social Views of Peter the Chanter and His Circle, 2 vols. (Prince­ton, N.J.: Prince­ton University Press, 1970), 2.51f., n. 59. The ­later examination practice at the universities involved assessing the seriousness of the candidate based on his connection to his master. The master presented the candidate to the examiners and testified to his competence. Olga Weijers, “Les règles d’examen dans les universités médiévales,” in Philosophy and Learning: Universities in the ­Middle Ages, ed. Maarten J. F. M. Hoenen, Jakob Hans Josef Schneider, and Georg Wieland (Leiden: Brill, 1995), 201–23, pp. 203–9. The requirement of having a master was one of the earliest princi­ples of the university system. 88. Abelard, Sic et non, ed. Boyer and McKeon, 103,324 (prol.): “Non enim praeiudicata doctoris opinio sed doctrinae ratio ponderanda est, sicut scriptum est: ‘Omnia probate, quod bonum est tenete.’ ” 89. Abelard, Carmen ad Astralabium, ed. Bosscher, 107.7–14: “non a quo sed quid dicatur sit tibi cure: / auctori nomen dant bene dicta suo; / nec tibi dilecti iures in verba magistri / nec te detineat doctor amore suo. / Fructu, non foliis pomorum quisque cibatur / et sensus verbis anteferendus erit. / ornatis animos captet persuasio verbis; / doctrine magis est debita planicies.” 90. John of Salisbury, Metalogicon, ed. Hall and Keats-­Rohan, 70–73 (c. 2.10).

276

Notes to Pages 111–112

91. Jacques de Vitry, Exempla, ed. Greven, 53 (Exemp. 88). 92. Abelard, Carmen ad Astralabium, ed. Bosscher, 119.247f. See also Moos, Gesammelte Studien 3, 303–8. 93. Abelard, Collationes, ed. and trans. John Marenbon and Giovanni Orlandi (Oxford: Clarendon, 2001), 8–12 (1.7–9). 94. Isaac of Stella, Sermones—­Predigten III, Im Anhang: De anima, De officio missae, ed. Wolfgang Gottfried Buchmüller and Bernhard Kohout-­Berghammer, 3 vols., Fontes Christiani 52.1–3 (Freiburg im Breisgau: Herder, 2012–2013), 1.342–56 (Sermo 16). On p. 344, Isaac closes his comments on ways of thinking “diversa, sed non adversa” with the warning that “neque enim veritas asserenda est contra caritatem, aut caritas tenenda est contra veritatem.” 95. John of Salisbury, Policraticus, ed. Webb, 2.227.3 (8 prol., 710c): “Non ergo quis sed quid quave de causa scribam diligens lector attendat.” 96. Alan of Lille, De fide catholica, PL 210.333A (c. 1.30): “Sed quia auctoritas cereum habet nasum, id est in diversum potest flecti sensum, rationibus roborandum est.” “Amicus Plato” appears at AHLett. 436 (Institutio 72): “nec amicitia sed veritas attendatur.” The saying is referenced in Hans Walther, ed., Carmina Medii Aevi Posterioris Latina, vol. 2.7: Lateinische Sprichwörter und Sentenzen des Mittelalters und der Frühen Neuzeit in alphabetischer Anordnung (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1982), 157 (no. 728). See also Henry Guerlac, “Amicus Plato and Other Friends,” Journal of the History of Ideas 39 (1978), 627–33; Leonardo Tarán, “Amicus Plato, sed magis amica veritas: From Plato and Aristotle to Cervantes,” Antike und Abendland 30 (1984), 93–124. 97. Augustine, De doctrina christiana, De vera religione, ed. Joseph Martin and K.-­D. Daur, CCSL 32 (Turnhout: Brepols, 1962), 99.33 (c. 3.25.36) “res eadem non in contraria, sed tantum in diversa significatione ponitur.” See also Catherine Brown, Contrary ­Things: Exegesis, Dialectic, and the Poetics of Didacticism (Stanford, Calif.: Stanford University Press, 1998), 15–35; Anselm of Laon’s letter to Heribrand of St. Laurence in Liège in Odon Lottin, Psychologie et morale, vol. 5: Problèmes d’histoire littéraire, L’école d’Anselme de Laon et de Guillaume de Champeaux (Lille: Duculot, 1959), 176.11. See too Steckel, Kulturen, S. 991–94. On the prob­lem of contradiction, see Reinhold Rieger, Contradictio: Theorien und Bewertungen des Widerspruchs in der Theologie des Mittelalters (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2005), 14–17; Rainer M. Ilgner, “Diversae sanctorum patrum sententiae: Wilhelm von St.  Thierry, Abaelard und der Widerspruch der Vätersentenzen,” in Väter der Kirche: Ekklesiales Denken von den Anfängen bis in die Neuzeit, ed. Johannes Arnold, Rainer Berndt, and Ralf  M.  W. Stammberger (Paderborn: Schöningh, 2004), 603–30; Peter von Moos, Geschichte als Topik: Das rhetorische Exemplum von der Antike zur Neuzeit und die “historiae” im Policraticus Johanns von Salisbury, 2nd  ed. (Hildesheim: Olms, 1996), 267, n. 561. The idea of consensus undergirds Hugh of St. Victor’s criticism of dialectic: it leads to “tot diversas et tam adversas, ne dicam perversas . . . ​sententias.” Hugh of St. Victor, De sapientia animae Christi, PL 176.845–56, col. 845f. For Bernard of Clairvaux, it was difficult to say diverse t­hings on a single subject without contradicting oneself. Bernard of Clairvaux, Sämtliche Werke, ed. Winkler, 6.596 (Sermo 81.11): “In libello, quem De gratia et libero arbitrio scripsi, diversa fortassis de imagine et similitudine disputata leguntur, sed ut arbitror, non adversa.” 98. On the distinction between the newer and older florilegia, see Odon Lottin, “Nouveaux fragments théologiques de l’école d’Anselme de Laon,” Recherches de théologie anciénne et médiévale 14 (1947), 5–31, 157–85. On t­ hese sentences in the context of Anselm of Laon’s and William of Champeaux’s teaching, see Lottin, Psychologie. Before then, the studies of Artur Michael Landgraf und Heinrich Weisweiler w ­ ere especially influential. On the collections as tools of pastoral care: Valerie I. J. Flint, “The ‘School of Laon’: A Reconsideration,” Recherches de théologie anciénne et médiévale 43 (1976), 89–110. Marcia Colish has described t­ hese works as modest in comparison to the work of Peter Lombard. Colish, Studies, 142f. (no. 1). Colish also judges the



Notes to Pages 112–116

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Sic et non harshly (p. 146f.) b ­ ecause of the supposed gap between Abelard’s theoretical claims and his success in implementing them. The most thorough recent examination of the genre is found in Giraud, Verba. 99. Anders Winroth, The Making of Gratian’s Decretum (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000). On the question of dating the dif­fer­ent drafts, see Charles Donahue Jr., “Review: The Making of Gratian’s Decretum,” Law and History Review 25 (2007), 401–3; Christoph H. F. Meyer, “Ordnung durch Ordnen: Die Erfassung und Gestaltung des hochmittelalterlichen Kirchenrechts im Spiegel von Texten, Begriffen und Institutionen,” in Ordnungskonfigurationen im hohen Mittelalter, ed. Bernd Schneidmüller and Stefan Weinfurter (Ostfildern: Thorbecke, 2006), 303–411, pp. 332–34. Paucapalea, a student of Gratian’s, describes the work as follows: “Intentio vero eius fuit, ipsa decreta ordinare et in superficie dissonantia ad concordiam revocare.” Discrepancies ­were only superficial and needed to be guided t­ oward unity and harmony. On the identity of Gratian, see Anders Winroth, “Where Gratian Slept: The Life and Death of the F ­ ather of Canon Law,” ZRG KA 99 (2013), 105–28. 100. Abelard, Sic et non, ed. Boyer and McKeon, 103 and 330 (pref.): “quae teneros lectores ad maximum inquirendae veritatis exercitium provocent et acutiores ex inquisitione reddant.” The full quote is provided below. 101. Von Moos, Geschichte, 267f. 102. Abelard, Sic et non, ed. Boyer and McKeon, 89.14 for another example. Further citations from the Boyer and McKeon edition (Sic et non) in this chapter ­w ill appear in parentheses in the main text. 103. The incipit to the Sic et non: “Incipiunt sententiae ex divinis scripturis collectae quae contrariae videntur. Pro qua quidem contrarietate haec compilatio sententiarum Sic et non appellatur.” Abelard, Sic et non, ed. Boyer and McKeon, 113. 104. “Non solum ab invicem diversa verum etiam invicem adversa videantur.” See also his opposition to the words of Isaiah (7:9): “If you do not stand firm in your faith, you ­w ill not stand at all.” AHLett. 54 (Ep. 1.35) and n. 120. 105. On the history of medieval criticism and emendation of the Bible text since the twelfth ­century without mention of Abelard, see Linde, Scriptura. 106. On Peter’s failure to establish a lasting school, see e­ arlier in this chapter. 107. Abelard, Sic et non, ed. Boyer and McKeon, 103 and 330 (pref.): “His autem praelibatis placet, ut instituimus, diversa sanctorum patrum dicta colligere, quae nostrae occurrerint memoriae aliquam ex dissonantia quam habere videntur quaestionem contrahentia, quae teneros lectores ad maximum inquirendae veritatis exercitium provocent et acutiores ex inquisitione reddant. Haec quippe prima sapientiae clavis definitur assidua scilicet seu frequens interrogatio . . . ​Dubitando quippe ad inquisitionem venimus; inquirendo veritatem percipimus.” 108. John of Salisbury, Metalogicon, ed. Hall and Keats-­Rohan, 71 (c. 2.10.35), 72 (c. 2.10.64). See also Christopher J. Martin, “William’s Machine,” Journal of Philosophy 83 (1986), 564–72. 109. John of Salisbury, Metalogicon, ed. Hall and Keats-­Rohan, 16 (c. 1.3.42). 110. John of Salisbury, Metalogicon, ed. Hall and Keats-­Rohan, 73 (c. 2.10.87). 111. William of Conches, Dragmaticon, ed. Ronca, 4.22 (c. 1.1.3): “Discipuli etiam culpa non carent, qui, relicta pythagoricae doctrinae forma, qua constitutum erat discipulum septem annis audire et credere, octavo demum interrogare, ex quo scolas intrant, antequam sedeant, interrogant; immo, quod deterius est, iudicant. Unius vero anni spacio negligenter studentes, totam sapientiam sibi cessisse putantes, arreptis ab ea panniculis, vento garrulitatis et superbiae pleni, pondere rerum vacui, abeunt. Et cum a suis parentibus vel ab aliis audiuntur, in verbis eorum parum vel nichil perpenditur, statimque quod hoc solum a magistris acceperint creditur; unde magistri auctoritas minuitur.” On the idea of a Pythagorean method, see Seneca, Epistulae Morales ad Lucilium, ed. Franz Loretto (Stuttgart: Reclam, 2001), 64–67 (5.52.10). See also Aulus Gellius, Noctes Atticae, ed. John C. Rolfe, 3 vols. (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press,

278

Notes to Pages 116–119

1946), 44–49 (1.4.1–7). The idea is also praised in Hugh of St. Victor, Didascalicon, ed. Offergeld, 228 (3.3). 112. Abelard, Problemata Heloissae, PL 178.677–730. col. 677B: “Neque vero, more Pythagorico, quidquid responderem rectum putabat; nec sine ratione praeiudicata apud eam valebat auctoritas; sed examinabat omnia, et sagaci mente universa pensabat, ut me sentirem non tam discipulam habere quam judicem.” The text of Jerome referenced ­here is his commentary on Galatians 1.

Chapter 6 1. His b ­ rother Dagobert must have come some distance in his studies since it was he who suggested that Abelard write the Dialectica sometime before 1118. Dagobert wanted to use it to teach his own sons. Abelard, Dialectica, ed. De Rijk, 146.21 (c. 2.1). Since the following section is based largely on Abelard’s letters, citations ­w ill appear in the main text. ­Because of its special status, the Historia calamitatum (Letter 1) w ­ ill be cited separately as Hist. cal. Both the Latin text and En­g lish translation follow AHLett. David Luscombe’s annotations were of invaluable help to me. 2. Georges Duby, “Les ‘jeunes’ dans la société aristocratique,” Annales E.S.C. 19 (1964), 835–46. Discussed with regard to the Historia calamitatum in Martin, “Note,” 616f., n. 53. 3. On his technique of teaching, especially his interactions with listeners, see Clanchy, Abelard, 90–94. 4. Caby, “Finis.” 5. The first solid evidence for the term aventure admittedly appears ­later. The first occurrence around 1090 was isolated, and it seems to have acquired its relevant meaning only during the second half of the twelfth ­century. Franz Lebsanft, “Die Bedeutung von altfranzösisch ‘aventure’: Ein Beitrag zu Theorie und Methodologie der mediävistischen Wort-­und Begriffsgeschichte,” in Im Wortfeld des Textes: Worthistorische Beiträge zu den Bezeichnungen von Rede und Schrift im Mittelalter, ed. Gerd Dicke, Manfred Eikelmann, and Burkhard Hasebrink (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2006), 311–37. 6. Hist. cal. 4 (c. 2): “Proinde diversas disputando perambulans provincias, ubicunque huius artis vigere stadium audieram, peripateticorum emulator factus sum.” 7. Roscelin of Compiègne, Epistola ad Petrum [Abaelardum], PL 178.360C; Silvestre, “Roscelin.” 8. Hist. cal. 6 (c. 3): “Hinc calamitatum mearum, que nunc usque perseverant, ceperunt exordia; et quo amplius fama extendebatur nostra, aliena in me succensa est invidia.” 9. Hist. cal. 4 (c. 3). Baudri of Bourgueil says much the same: Francia is the center of science, and at its center is Paris. Baudri of Bourgueil, “Historia magistri Roberti,” in Les deux vies de Robert d’Arbrissel, fondateur de Fontevraud Légendes, écrits et témoignages, ed. Jacques Dalarun (Turnhout: Brepols, 2006), 13–187, p. 144 (c. 7.3f.): “Perambulabat [Robert of Arbrissel] regiones et provincias irrequietus, et in litterarum studiis non poterat non esse sollicitus. Et quoniam Francia tum florebat in scholaribus emolumentis copiosior, fines paternos tanquam exsul et fugitivus exivit, Franciam adiit et urbem quae Parisius dicitur intravit. Litterarum disciplinam quam unice sibi postulaverat pro voto commodam reperit, ibique assiduus lector insidere coepit.” Goswin of Anchin also went to Paris in the early 1100s “where . . . ​d ialectic was taught by many highly educated men competing against each other” (ubi tunc a quampluribus eruditissimis certatim dialectica docebatur). Werner Robl, “Goswin von Anchin, ein Widersacher Abaelards,” in Peter Abaelard: Leben, Werk, Wirkung, ed. Ursula Niggli (Freiburg im Breisgau: Herder, 2003), 267–92, p. 270. On the decision to send Adalbert of Mainz (of Saarbrücken) to Paris around 1138 so that his education would be worth something, see Joachim Ehlers, “Verfassungs-­und sozialgeschichtliche Studien zum Bildungsgang Erzbischof Adalberts II. von Mainz,” in Joachim Ehlers, Ausgewählte Aufsätze, ed. Martin Kintzinger and Bernd Schneidmüller (Berlin: Duncker und Humblot, 1996), 191–214, p. 202f.



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10. By the late twelfth c­ entury, students who had once studied in Paris w ­ ere known to visit the city again and again. Ferruolo, Origins, 155–58, 170, 180, 188; Frank Rexroth, “ ‘Wissenschaft’ und ‘Unmoral’ in den mittelalterlichen Vorstellungen von der Bildungsmetropole Paris,” in Urbanität: Formen der Inszenierung in Texten, Karten, Bildern, ed. Martina Stercken and Ute Schneider (Cologne: Böhlau, 2016), 43–66. 11. Hist. cal. 4 (c. 3): “Perveni tandem Parisius, ubi iam maxime disciplina hec florere consueverat, ad Guillelmum scilicet Campellensem preceptorem meum in hoc tunc magisterio re et fama precipuum.” 12. Abelard, Opera theologica III, ed. Buytaert and Mews, 313 (Theologia “Scholarium,” pref.). 13. Luscombe, School. 14. For information and lit­er­a­ture on the ­careers of Alberic and Lotulf, see AHLett. 56f., n. 122. 15. Abelard, Collationes, ed. and trans. Marenbon and Orlandi, 4 (c. 1.4). 16. On the role of the third party and the enviers, see Chapter 2. 17. Abelard, Dialectica, ed. De Rijk, 469.5–8 (c. 4 prol.). On the social dimension of shame, see Katharina Behrens, Scham: Zur sozialen Bedeutung eines Gefühls im spätmittelalterlichen ­England (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2014). 18. Abelard, Sic et non, ed. Boyer and McKeon, 95.155 (prol.). The relevant passage: Cicero, De officiis, ed. Heinz Gunermann (Stuttgart: Reclam, 1976), 170f. (2.9.34). Abelard cites it at: Sic et non, 466 (c. 137.8); Abelard, Collationes, ed. and trans. Marenbon and Orlandi, 116 (c. 2.98). 19. Max Weber, Economy and Society: An Outline of Interpretive Sociology, ed. Guenther Roth and Claus Wittrich (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2013), 672. On the exceptional situation of the Ardusson group even within Abelard’s biography, see Ziolkowski, “Dilemma,” 243. 20. The chronicle of William Goddell, a monk at the abbey of St. Martial in Limoges. Delisle, ed., Recueil, 13.675B. 21. Abelard made a similar distinction in his description of William of Champeaux between the “community of ­brothers” and the “school” that followed him when he left Paris. Hist. cal. 12 (twice) and 49 (c. 8). 22. Abelard, Philosophische Schriften, ed. Geyer, 505. 23. Janet Coleman, “The Continuity of Utopian Thought in the M ­ iddle Ages: A Reconsideration,” Vivarium 20 (1982), 1–23; Otto Gerhard Oexle, “Wunschräume und Wunschzeiten: Entstehung und Funktionen des utopischen Denkens in Mittelalter, Früher Neuzeit und Moderne,” in Die Wahrheit des Nirgendwo: Zur Geschichte und Zukunft des utopischen Denkens, ed. Jörg Calließ (Rehburg-­Loccum: Evangelische Akademie, 1994), 33–83, pp. 46–49. 24. On settlements of hermits, see Chapter 3. Modern research on “utopian thought” in­de­ pen­dent of specific literary genres owes much to Alfred Doren, “Wunschräume und Wunsch­ zeiten,” in Vorträge der Bibliothek Warburg 1924–25, ed. Fritz Saxl (Leipzig: Teubner, 1927), 158–205; Otto Gerhard Oexle, “Utopisches Denken im Mittelalter: Pierre Dubois,” HZ 224 (1977), 293–339; Oexle, “Wunschräume.” On the current state, see Heiko Hartmann, “Utopias, Utopian Thought,” in Handbook of Medieval Studies: Terms, Methods, Trends, ed. Albrecht Classen, 3 vols. (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2010), 1400–1408; Frank Rexroth, Expertenweisheit: Die Kritik an den Studierten und die Utopie einer geheilten Gesellschaft im späten Mittelalter (Basel: Schwabe, 2008). 25. The second book of the Theologia “Christiana” had already laid out a view of asceticism, monasticism, and eremitism that fit very well with the lifestyle that Abelard and his students ­adopted at the Ardusson settlement. Marenbon, Abelard, 21. 26. Abelard, Opera theologica II, ed. Buytaert, 155.163 (Theologia “Christiana” 2.57 and 2.71). On the dating, see Mews, Abelard, 151–57 (no. 5). 27. Abelard, Opera theologica II, ed. Buytaert, 122 (Theologia “Christiana” 1.118): “Pluribus quoque sanctorum testimoniis didicimus Platonicam sectam Catholicae fidei concordare.”

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28. Abelard, Opera theologica II, ed. Buytaert, 143 (Theologia “Christiana” 2.27). See p. 25 on the line of reasoning in the second book, and also J. Ramsay McCallum, Abelard’s Christian Theology (Oxford: Blackwell, 1948), 59–66 (based on an outdated text, however). This example is singled out b ­ ecause Peter used it once in a conflict. See Chapter 8. 29. That is the core message of Abelard, Opera theologica II, ed. Buytaert, 132–93 (Theologia “Christiana” book 2). Marenbon, Abelard, 21; Mews, Abelard, 109–58 (no. 5). 30. Kantorowicz, “Wiederkehr.” On the fortune of this groundbreaking study, see Robert E. Lerner, Ernst Kantorowicz: A Life (Prince­ton, N.J.: Prince­ton University Press, 2017), 184f. 31. Luisa Valente, “Phi­los­o­phers and Other Kinds of Beings According to Abelard and John of Salisbury,” in Logic and Language in the M ­ iddle Ages: A Volume in Honour of Sten Ebbesen, ed. Jakob L. Fink, Heine Hansen, and Ana María Mora-­Márquez (Leiden: Brill, 2013), 105–24, pp. 111–17. On the polysemy of the term philosophia and its “substantification” (Verinhaltlichung), see Schrimpf, “Philosophia”; Gangolf Schrimpf, “Philosophie, Institutionelle Formen, B: Mittelalter,” Historisches Wörterbuch der Philosophie 7 (1989), cols. 800–19. See also Ernst Robert Curtius, “Zur Geschichte des Wortes Philosophie im Mittelalter,” Romanische Forschungen 57 (1943), 290–309; Juliusz Domański, La philosophie, théorie ou manière de vivre? Les controverses de l’antiquité à la re­nais­sance (Fribourg: Editions Universitaires de Fribourg, 1996), 31–51. The author seeks to show how the term philosophia was gradually emancipated from the concept of artes liberales during the twelfth ­century, which is absolutely correct. Our goal is to show that this revolution in scientific understanding went hand in hand with changes in social form. 32. Abelard, Opera theologica II, ed. Buytaert, 149 (Theologia “Christiana” 2.43). 33. Abelard, Opera theologica II, ed. Buytaert, 157 (Theologia “Christiana” 2.62). 34. Abelard, Opera theologica II, ed. Buytaert, 148 (Theologia “Christiana” 2.38). 35. Collins, Sociology, 83. 36. See the third section of Chapter 4. 37. Moos, Gesammelte Studien 3. This volume contains studies that initially appeared separately on the topics of the medieval public and its endoxon. I cite it as a monograph for the sake of simplicity. 38. As stated in Abelard, Philosophische Schriften, ed. Geyer, 23.6–17 (Logica “Ingredientibus” 1). The quote is from: Moos, Gesammelte Studien 3, 345. 39. Moos, Gesammelte Studien 3, 303 (“Demutsformel”). 40. Olga Weijers dedicated a series of valuable articles to ­t hese tools. Summarized in Weijers, Search. 41. Abelard, Opera theologica III, ed. Buytaert and Mews, 313 (Theologia “Scholarium,” pref.). 42. Letter 13 in Abelard, Letters IX–­X IV, ed. Smits, 271–77. 43. Augustine, Retractationum libri II, ed. Almut Mutzenbecher, CCSL 57 (Turnhout: Brepols, 1984). 44. Direct mention of the Bible passage in the first letter to Heloise: AHLett. 150f. (Ep. 3.9). 45. Abelard, Opera theologica II, ed. Buytaert, 207.459 (Theologia “Christiana” 3.30). 46. Augustine, Contra academicos, ed. Green and Daur, 202 (De magistro 14.45): “Num hoc magistri profitentur, ut cogitata eorum ac non ipsae disciplinae, quas loquendo se tradere putant, percipiantur atque teneantur? Nam quis tam stulte curiosus est, qui filium suum mittat in scolam, ut quid magister cogitet discat? At istas omnes disciplinas, quas se docere profitentur, ipsiusque virtutis atque sapientiae cum verbis explicaverint, tum illi, qui discipuli vocantur, utrum vera dicta sint, apud semetipsos considerant interiorem scilicet illam veritatem pro viribus intuentes. Tunc ergo discunt, et cum vera dicta esse intus invenerint, laudant nescientes non se doctores potius laudare quam doctos, si tamen et illi quod loquuntur sciunt. Falluntur autem homines, ut eos qui non sunt magistros vocent, quia plerumque inter tempus locutionis et tempus cognitionis nulla mora interponitur, et quoniam post admonitionem sermocinantis cito intus discunt, foris se ab eo, qui admonuit, didicisse artibrantur.”



Notes to Pages 131–133

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47. Bonaventure, Itinerarium mentis in Deum, ed. Marianne Schlosser (Münster: Litverlag, 2004), 40 (c. 2.8). A study on the history of the concept is still lacking. The term is also found in Bonaventure’s Collationes in Hexaemeron. Other results based on searches in five databases are mostly from ­later years (for example Conrad of Megenberg, Ambrosius Traversarius, Camilla Battista da Varano, Margarita Poenitens). A telling exception is a sermon in Hélinand of Froidmont, Sermones, PL 212.481–720. col. 628D (Serm. 18). 48. Arno Borst, “Abaelard und Bernhard,” in Arno Borst, Barbaren, Ketzer und Artisten: Welten des Mittelalters (Munich and Zu­rich: P ­ iper, 1988), 351–76, p. 361 on the “windbag” Hugo Metellus. See also Werner Robl, “Das Konzil von Sens 1141 und seine Folgen: Der Ketzerprozess gegen Peter Abaelard im Spiegel der Zeitgeschichte 2003,” http://­w ww​.­robl​.­de​/­abaelard​/­sens1141​ .­pdf (accessed May 30, 2022); Mews, “Council”; Mews, “Hugh Metel”; Bernard of Clairvaux, Sämt­ liche Werke, ed. Winkler, 3.1064–67 (Commentary on Ep. 187). The commentator hesitantly sticks with the traditional date of 1140, which has since been abandoned. On the quality of Hugo’s letters, see Ludwig Ott, Untersuchungen zur theologischen Briefliteratur der Frühscholastik (Münster: Aschendorff, 1937), 49. 49. Walter of Mortagne, Epistola ad Petrum Abaelardum, in Sententiae Florianenses, ed. Heinrich Ostlender (Bonn: Hanstein, 1929), 34–40. 50. Walter of Mortagne, Epistola ad Petrum, in Sententiae Florianenses, ed. Ostlender, 40.5: “Haec scripsi vobis, non praesumens vos docere, qui in divina scriptura prae ceteris eminetis, sed per litteras vestras scire desidero, si in notitia Dei vos imperfectum esse creditis, aut si iam in hac vita ad summum eius augmentum vos pervenisse confidatis.” 51. Walter of Mortagne, Epistola ad Petrum, in Sententiae Florianenses, ed. Ostlender, 37.9: “Fortasse autem vobis visum est, sicut etiam discipuli vestri testantur, cum quibus locutus sum.” 52. Walter of Mortagne, Epistola ad Petrum, in Sententiae Florianenses, ed. Ostlender, 34.9: “Solet autem frequenter contingere, quod discipuli discordent a sensu magistrorum, sive per imperitiam verba eorum male exponendo, sive ad ostensionem sui aliquas novitates inducendo, quas causa maioris auctoritatis magistris suis, licet ignorantibus, consueverunt adscribere.” 53. ­Here referring to the older, shorter text of the two recensiones breviores: Abelard, Opera theologica II, ed. Buytaert, 399–451, p. 401f. for the following quotations in the main text. The expansions from the second redaction are omitted. 54. Walter of Mortagne, Epistola ad Petrum, in Sententiae Florianenses, ed. Ostlender, 34.21: “illud, quod in prologo posuistis haec verba: ‘Summam quasi divinae scripturae introductionem conscripsimus, non nos tam veritatem docere promittentes, quam opinionis nostrae sensum, quem efflagitant, exponentes.’ Hoc in tractatu vestro legi. Quis autem orthodoxus de fide catholica tractaturus non veritatem, sed sensum opinionis suae promittat exponere? Quis etiam audiens non veritatem, sed opinionem promitti, fidem audeat sequentibus adhibere?” 55. I follow the more recent approach of dating the Synod of Sens to 1141 and correct the relevant texts, such as William’s letter, accordingly. Mews, “Council,” 345–54 especially, as well as the near-­new chronology on p.  381f. Wim Verbaal, “The Council of Sens Reconsidered: Masters, Monks, or Judges?,” Church History 74 (2005), 460–93. See also Abelard, Theologia Scholarium, ed Matthias Perkams (Freiburg im Breisgau: Herder, 2010), 30, n. 62; Abelard, Scito te ipsum, ed. Ilgner, 3; Robl, “Konzil.” U ­ ntil recently, all the events w ­ ere assigned to the previous year, such as in William of Saint-­Thierry, Opera omnia 5, ed. Verdeyen, 11. Although I d ­ on’t agree with the dating of the letter to 1139 on pp. 13–15, I follow the text of the edition. The dating of the letter is impor­tant for many reasons, especially for determining the po­liti­cal context of the conflict. As Mews has shown, it serves as a terminus ante quem for many of Abelard’s impor­tant theological works such as the Theologia “Scholarium,” the Scito te ipsum, and the student reports known as the Liber sententiarum. On this last text, see Abelard, Opera theologica VI, ed. Luscombe and Mews. 56. William of Saint-­Th ierry, Opera omnia 5, ed. Verdeyen, 13 (Ep. contra Abel. 1.14): “Petrus enim Abaelardus iterum nova docet, nova scribit, et libri eius transeunt maria, transsiliunt

282

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Alpes, et novae eius sententiae de fide, et nova dogmata per provincias et regna deferuntur, celebriter praedicantur et libere defenduntur, in tantum ut in curia etiam Romana dicantur habere auctoritatem.” 57. William of Saint-­Th ierry, Opera omnia 5, ed. Verdeyen, 13 (Ep. contra Abel. 2): “Casu nuper incidi in lectionem cuiusdam libelli hominis illius, cuius titulus erat: Theologia Petri Abaelardi. Fateor, curiosum me fecit titulus ad legendum. Duo autem erant libelli idem paene continentes, nisi quod in altero plus, in altero minus aliquando invenietur.” On the second book William saw, see Bernard of Clairvaux, Sämtliche Werke, ed. Winkler, 3.62.15 (Ep. 188.2), 3.92.10 (Ep. 190.11). On William’s reaction to the book title Theologia, see Michel Lemoine, “Filosofici e fisici nell’opera di Guglielmo di Saint-­Thierry,” in Questioni neoplatoniche, ed. Francesco Romano and Antonino Tiné (Catania: Università di Catania, 1988), 83–106. 58. William of Saint-­Th ierry, Opera omnia 5, ed. Verdeyen, 14f. (Ep. contra Abel. 4.75): “Sunt autem, ut audio, adhuc alia eius opuscula, quorum nomina sunt: Sic et non, Scito te ipsum, et alia quaedam de quibus timeo, ne sicut monstruosi sunt nominis, sic etiam sint monstruosi dogmatis; sed, sicut dicunt, oderunt lucem, nec etiam quaesita inveniuntur.” 59. William of Saint-­Th ierry, Opera omnia 5, ed. Verdeyen, 14 (Ep. contra Abel. 2.41): “agens in Scriptura divina quod agere solebat in dialectica, proprias adinventiones, annuas novitates; censor fidei, non discipulus; emendator, non imitator.” 60. William of Saint-­Th ierry, Opera omnia 5, ed. Verdeyen, 14 (Ep. contra Abel. 4.71): “Dilexi et ego eum, et diligere vellem, Deus testis est; sed in causa hac nemo umquam proximus mihi erit vel amicus.” 61. See Ferruccio Gastaldelli’s comments in Bernard of Clairvaux, Sämtliche Werke, ed. Winkler, 3.1062-1245 (Commentary p. 1065 on Ep. 187). ­Others speak of a “mythical ­battle between two of the most famous personalities of the age.” Mews, “Council,” 343. See also Kurt Flasch, Kampfplätze der Philosophie: Große Kontroversen von Augustin bis Voltaire (Frankfurt am Main: Klostermann, 2008), 125–39. 62. Criticism of this view appears already in Borst, “Abaelard.” 63. Miethke, Theologenprozesse, 96–102 especially. On censorship as an institution, see Peter Godman, The ­Silent Masters: Latin Lit­er­a­ture and Its Censors in the High ­Middle Ages (Prince­ton, N.J.: Prince­ton University Press, 2000); Steckel, Kulturen, 56. 64. Verbaal, “Council.” 65. H ­ ere we mention only Bernard of Clairvaux, Sämtliche Werke, ed. Winkler, 3.58–143, 550–53, 558–83 with the commentary at 1064–83 and 1170–74 (Epp. 187–95, 326f., 330–38). Ep. 193 documents the decision to totally destroy Abelard’s moral reputation. The quote comes from the letter of Bishop Hatto of Troyes to Abbot Peter the Venerable of Cluny. Peter the Venerable, Letters, ed. Giles Constable, 2 vols. (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1967), 1.256 (no. 96): “Abbas Clarevallensis praesens erat, Carnotensis episcopus domos nostras obsederat. See also the commentary at p. 2.317–20. 66. Bernard of Clairvaux, Sämtliche Werke, ed. Winkler, 3.74 (Ep. 190): “Habemus in Francia novum de veteri magistro theologum, qui ab ineunte aetate sua in arte dialectica lusit, et nunc in Scripturis sanctis insanit.” p. 3.80: “isto non disputante, sed dementante.” 67. This claim was seized upon by Pope Innocent II: Innocent II, Epistolae et privilegia, PL 179.53–674. col. 517B: “Per praesentia scripta fraternitati vestrae mandamus quatenus Petrum Abaelardum et Arnaldum de Brixia, perversi dogmatis fabricatores, et Catholicae fidei impugnatores, in religiosis locis, ubi vobis melius visum fuerit, separatim faciatis includi, et libros erroris eorum, ubicunque reperti fuerint, igne comburi.” The meta­phors of bees and honey appear in Bernard of Clairvaux, Sämtliche Werke, ed. Winkler, 3.66 (Ep. 189.2). 68. William of Saint-­Th ierry, Opera omnia 5, ed. Verdeyen, 61 (De erroribus Guillelmi de Conchis), p. 9f., on how William’s strategy of casting his b ­ attle against Abelard as against pre­



Notes to Pages 135–138

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sent heresies in general is made clear in his surviving dossier in the manuscript Charleville-­ Mézières, Bibliothèque municipale, 67. 69. Rodney M. Thomson, “The Satirical Works of Berengar of Poitiers: An Edition with Introduction,” Mediaeval Studies 42 (1980), 89–138, p. 114. 70. William of Saint-­Th ierry, Opera omnia, vol. 1: Expositio super Epistolam ad Romanos, ed. Paul Verdeyen, CCCM 86 (Turnhout: Brepols, 1989), v. 71. Cartulaire de Notre-­Dame de Chartres, vol. 1, ed. Eugène de Lépinois and Lucien Merlet (Chartres: Garnier, 1865), 104–8 (no.  24). On Geoffrey, see Lindy Grant, “Geoffrey of Lèves, Bishop of Chartres: ‘Famous Wheeler and Dealer in Secular Business,’ ” in Suger en question: Regards croisés sur Saint-­Denis, ed. Rolf Grosse (Munich: Oldenbourg, 2004), 45–56. 72. On his biography, see the introduction in William of Saint-­Th ierry, Opera omnia, vol. 1, ed. Verdeyen, v–­x xiii. 73. William of Saint-­Th ierry, Opera omnia, vol. 1, ed. Verdeyen, xvi. 74. La Chronique de Morigny (1095–1152), ed. Mirot, 68. 75. For example, see the compilation of biographical statements about Lanfranc of Bec in Montclos, Lanfranc, 546f. He practiced lectio intensively before taking over as archbishop of Canterbury but from then on only when time allowed (Milo Crispin). 76. On Lanfranc, see Chapter 3 above. Guibert of Nogent’s autobiography suddenly becomes much more interested in money once Guibert becomes abbot. The same can be said of the biography of Suger of Saint-­Denis written by William of Saint-­Denis. Suger, unlike most of his contemporaries, did not gain weight once he became abbot. See the excerpts from the Vita Sugerii in Suger of Saint-­Denis, Ausgewählte Schriften: Ordinatio, De consecratione, De administratione, ed. Andreas Speer and Günther Binding (Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 2000), 390.388. 77. William of Saint-­Th ierry, Oraisons méditatives, ed. Jacques Hourlier, SC 324 (Paris: Editions du Cerf, 1985), 178 (9.19) with the apparatus of variants. Augustine, Quaestiones evangeliorum cum appendice Quaestionum XVI in Matthaeum, ed. Almut Mutzenbecher, CCSL 44B (Turnhout: Brepols, 1980), 13.6 (1.9): “solet enim otium concedi sexagenariis post militiam vel post actiones publicas.” 78. On this accusation, see the first section of Chapter 5. 79. Bernard of Clairvaux, Sämtliche Werke, ed. Winkler, 3.334 (Ep. 250.4): “Clamat ad vos mea monstruosa vita, mea aerumnosa conscientia. Ego enim quaedam Chimaera mei saeculi, nec clericum gero nec laicum.” 80. Bernard of Clairvaux, Sämtliche Werke, ed. Winkler, 3.568 (Ep. 332): “disputantem cum pueris, conversantem cum mulierculis.” 81. William of Saint-­Th ierry, Opera omnia, vol. 3: Opera didactica et spiritualia, ed. Stanislav Ceglar and Paul Verdeyen, CCCM 88 (Turnhout: Brepols, 2003), 226 (Epistola ad fratres de monte Dei, prol. 9f.). 82. William of Saint-­Th ierry, Opera omnia 5, ed. Verdeyen, 14 (Ep. contra Abel. 2.38): “Emortuis quippe ex Ecclesia omnibus paene doctrinae ecclesiasticae magistris, quasi in vacuam rempublicam Ecclesiae domesticus irruens inimicus, singulare sibi in ea magisterium arripuit, agens in Scriptura divina quod agere solebat in dialectica, proprias adinventiones, annuas novitates; censor fidei, non discipulus; emendator, non imitator.” 83. Bernard of Clairvaux, Sämtliche Werke, ed. Winkler, 3.568f. (Ep. 332). 84. The guardians of orthodoxy attributed the spread of erroneous beliefs not to their specific contents, but to their originators, no ­matter how insignificant they might have seemed. They speak of Tanchelmistae (followers of a certain Tanchelm from Antwerp and Zeeland), of Petrobrusiani (from Peter of Bruys), or of Arnaldistae (­a fter Arnold of Brescia). Herbert Grundmann, Ketzergeschichte des Mittelalters: Die Kirche in ihrer Geschichte, vol. 2 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1963), G 16f.

284

Notes to Pages 139–142

Chapter 7 1. Clifford Geertz, ­After the Fact: Two Countries, Four De­cades, One Anthropologist (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1995), 15. 2. Moos, Gesammelte Studien 3, 320–80. The lit­er­a­ture and research on John’s life and work is sprawling. A good access point is Julian Haseldine’s introduction in John of Salisbury, Metalogicon, trans. J. B. Hall and Julian P. Haseldine (Turnhout: Brepols, 2013), 13–106. See also Christophe Grellard and Frédérique Lachaud, eds., A Companion to John of Salisbury (Leiden: Brill, 2015). 3. The machine is also mentioned in the third section of Chapter 5. 4. John of Salisbury, Metalogicon, ed. Hall and Keats-­Rohan, 66 (c. 2.7.2): “Non tamen ut in logicam invehar haec propono, scientia enim iucunda est et fructuosa, sed ut illis eam liqueat non adesse qui clamant in compitis, et in triviis docent, et in ea quam solam profitentur non decennium aut vicennium sed totam consumpserunt aetatem. Nam et cum senectus ingruit, corpus enervat, sensuum retundit acumina, et praecedentes comprimit voluptates, sola haec in ore voluitur, versatur in manibus, et aliis omnibus studiis praeripit locum. Fiunt itaque in puerilibus Academici senes, omnem dictorum aut scriptorum excutiunt sillabam immo et litteram, dubitantes ad omnia, quaerentes semper sed nunquam ad scientiam pervenientes, et tandem convertuntur ad vaniloquium, nescientes quid loquantur aut de quibus affirment. Errores condunt novos, et antiquorum aut nesciunt, aut dedignantur sententias imitari.” On John’s association with the tradition of the skeptics, see Christophe Grellard, Jean de Salisbury et la Re­nais­sance médiévale du scepticisme (Paris: Les Belles Lettres, 2013); Cary J. Nederman, “Beyond Stoicism and Aristotelianism: John of Salisbury’s Skepticism and Twelfth-­Century Moral Philosophy,” in Virtue and Ethics in the Twelfth C ­ entury, ed. István P. Bejczy and Richard G. Newhauser (Leiden: Brill, 2005), 175–95; Cary  J. Nederman, “Toleration, Skepticism, and the ‘Clash of Ideas’: Princi­ples of Liberty in the Writings of John of Salisbury,” in Beyond the Persecuting Society: Religious Toleration Before the Enlightenment, ed. John Christian Laursen and Cary J. Nederman (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1998), 53–70. On the idea of the puer senex, see Heinrich Fichtenau, Living in the Tenth ­Century: Mentalities and Social ­Orders (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1991), 286. On childish adulthood, see John of Hauville, Architrenius, ed. Paul Gerhard Schmidt (Munich: Fink, 1974), 250 (c. 8.1). 5. John of Salisbury, Metalogicon, ed. Hall and Keats-­Rohan, 73 (c. 2.10.87). 6. John of Salisbury, Entheticus maior, ed. Laarhoven, 1.47–52: John likely wrote the text in Canterbury based on preparatory work from his time in Paris. 7. John of Salisbury, Entheticus maior, ed. Laarhoven, 1.104 (c. 1.11–24). See also John of Salisbury, Metalogicon, ed. Hall and Keats-­Rohan, 152 (c. 4.14.3): “Et quia veritas prudentiae materia est, nam in veri comprehensione laborat, finxerunt antiqui Fronesin et Alitiam esse germanas, eo quod prudentiae cum veritate est quaedam divina cognatio.” 8. The poem begins with the promise that reaching this level immunizes one from the vapid world of courtly gossip. John of Salisbury, Entheticus maior, ed. Laarhoven, 1.104 (1.1–10). On superficiality, see Chapter 8. 9. John of Salisbury, Entheticus maior, ed. Laarhoven, 1.220 (4.1765f.). 10. On the idea of “adoptions inverses,” see Rémi Brague, Eu­rope, la voie romaine (Paris: Criterion, 1993). 11. The current state of research is summarized in Grellard and Lachaud, eds., Companion; Moos, Gesammelte Studien 3, 357 (quote). Richard Southern describes John as a “pre-­scholastic” mainly for his criticism of Abelard and the tendency of the dialecticians to oversystematize. This interpretation is problematic for several reasons, including for Southern’s own narrative of “scholastic humanism.” Southern, Scholastic Humanism, 2.167–77. 12. Marcia  L. Colish, Peter Lombard, 2 vols. (Leiden: Brill, 1994); Philipp  W. Rosemann, Peter Lombard (New York: Oxford University Press, 2004); Philipp W. Rosemann, The Story of a



Notes to Pages 142–143

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­ reat Medieval Book: Peter Lombard’s Sentences (Peterborough: Broadview, 2007); Matthew G Doyle, Peter Lombard and His Students (Toronto: PIMS, 2016). Research on the development of the sentence commentaries can be found in ­t hese works. On the versions of Gratian’s Decretum and their compiler(s), see Winroth, Making; Winroth, “Where Gratian Slept”; James A. Brundage, The Medieval Origins of the ­Legal Profession: Canonists, Civilians, and Courts (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2008), 99–103; and also the discussion of Winroth’s book in Donahue, “Review.” 13. Constant  J. Mews, “William of Champeaux, Abelard and Hugh of Saint-­Victor: Platonism, Theology, and Scripture in Early Twelfth-­Century France,” in Bibel und Exegese in der Abtei Saint-­Victor zu Paris: Form und Funktion eines Grundtextes im europäischen Rahmen, ed. Rainer Berndt (Münster: Aschendorff, 2009), 131–63; William of Conches, Philosophia mundi, ed. Gregor Maurach (Pretoria: University of South Africa Press, 1980); William of Conches, Dragmaticon. On this last work and its effort to understand the Platonic world soul, see Southern, Scholastic Humanism, 2.73–77. 14. Martianus Capella, De nuptiis; Matthias Gerth, Bildungsvorstellungen im 5. Jahrhundert n. Chr. Macrobius, Martianus Capella und Sidonius Apollinaris (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2013). 15. Macrobius, Commentarii in somnium Scipionis, ed. James A. Willis, 2nd ed. (Leipzig: Teubner, 1970). 16. Boethius, Philosophiae consolatio, ed. Ludwig Bieler, CCSL 94 (Turnhout: Brepols, 1984); Joachim Gruber, Boethius: Eine Einführung (Stuttgart: Hiersemann, 2011). 17. Bernard of Chartres, Glossae super Platonem, ed. Paul E. Dutton (Toronto: PIMS, 1991). See pp. 66–70 on the text’s relationship to the commentary of Chalcidius. 18. Petrus Helias, Summa super Priscianum, ed. Leo Reilly, 2 vols. (Toronto: PIMS, 1993), 16 (editor’s quote). 19. Charles S. F. Burnett, “Adelard of Bath,” Encyclopedia of Medieval Philosophy: Philosophy Between 500 and 1500, vol. 1 (Dordrecht: Springer, 2011), 24–26; Adelard of Bath, Conversations with His Nephew: On the Same and the Dif­fer­ent; Questions on Natu­ral Science; On Birds, ed. and trans. Charles S. F. Burnett (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998); Charles S. F. Burnett, Adelard of Bath: An En­glish Scientist and Arabist of the Early Twelfth C ­ entury (London: Warburg Institute, 1987); Alexander Fidora, “Dominicus Gundissalinus und die arabische Wissenschaftstheorie,” in Wissen über Grenzen: Arabisches Wissen und lateinisches Mittelalter, ed. Andreas Speer and Lydia Wegener (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2006), 467–82; Alexander Fidora, “Dominicus Gundissalinus und die Rezeption der aristotelischen Wissenschaftstheorie,” in Erkenntnis und Wissenschaft: Probleme der Epistemologie in der Philosophie des Mittelalters, ed. Matthias Lutz-­ Bachmann, Alexander Fidora, and Pia  A. Antolic (Berlin: Akademie, 2004), 93–102; Fidora, Wissenschaftstheorie; Andreas Speer, Die entdeckte Natur: Untersuchungen zu Begründungsversuchen einer scientia naturalis im 12. Jahrhundert (Leiden: Brill, 1995). 20. Claude Lafleur, Quatre introductions à la philosophie au XIIIe siècle: Textes critiques et étude historique (Montréal: Institut d’études médiévales, 1988); Claude Lafleur and Joanne Carrier, “L’enseignement philosophique à la Faculté des Arts de l’Université de Paris en la première moitié du XIIIe siècle dans le miroir des textes didascaliques,” Laval théologique et philosophique 60 (2004), 409–48. On the genre, see most recently Jan-­Hendryk de Boer and Marcel Bubert, “Studienführer,” in Universitäre Gelehrtenkultur, ed. Boer, Füssel, and Schuh, 337–55. 21. Gregor Maurach, “Daniel von Morley, Philosophia,” Mittellateinisches Jahrbuch 13 (1979), 204–55; Thomas Ricklin, “Die lateinische Entdeckung der Quintessenz: Die Philosophia des Daniel von Morley,” in Metaphysics in the Twelfth C ­ entury: On the Relationship Among Philosophy, Science and Theology, ed. Matthias Lutz-­Bachmann, Alexander Fidora, and Andreas Niederberger (Turnhout: Brepols, 2004), 85–112. 22. Rexroth, “Fehltritte”; H.  C. van Elswijk, Gilbert Porreta: sa vie, son oeuvre, sa pensée (Louvain: Spicilegium sacrum Lovaniense, 1966).

286

Notes to Pages 143–144

23. Nikolaus Martin Häring, Life and Works of Clarembald of Arras, a Twelfth-­Century Master of the School of Chartres (Toronto: PIMS, 1965), with an edition of the commentary. Translated in Clarembald of Arras, The Boethian Commentaries, trans. David  B. George and John R. Fortin (Notre Dame, Ind.: University of Notre Dame Press, 2002). 24. Hugh of St.  Victor, Didascalicon, ed. Offergeld, 226 (c. 3.2), on the translatio studii; p. 228 (c. 3.3) on the praise of the “Pythagorean” teaching method, in which students had to listen for seven years before asking questions—­quite dif­fer­ent from current practice; p. 232 (c. 3.4) on the new “phi­los­o­phers” for whom science and poetry went hand in hand; p. 236 (c. 3.5) on the threat of mixing the sciences too hastily; pp. 250–62 (c. 3.13f.) on how to age properly (gradually becoming wise in humility) and improperly (youthful arrogance), the latter of which seems to have been directed at followers of Abelard (p. 256). Mews, “William” (2009). On the place of the Didascalicon in the history of reading and reading techniques, see Illich, Vineyard. 25. On this biographical chapter in his life, which is treated below, see John of Salisbury, Metalogicon, ed. Hall and Keats-­Rohan, 70–73 (c. 2.10). This account has been thoroughly dissected, giving rise to questions of chronology, of compatibility with other sources, and of its purpose within the work as a w ­ hole. While the first two do not concern us, the third one does. On this topic, see Julian Haseldine’s commentary in John of Salisbury, Metalogicon, trans. Hall and Haseldine, 21–43, 34–43. Regarding the list of teachers, scholars often refer to Joachim Ehlers’s geographic allocation in Joachim Ehlers, “Deutsche Scholaren in Frankreich während des 12. Jahrhunderts,” in Schulen und Studium im sozialen Wandel des hohen und späten Mittelalters, ed. Johannes Fried (Sigmaringen: Thorbecke, 1986), 97–120, p. 97, n. 1. See, for example Jean-­Marie Moeglin, “Träger und Modalitäten des Austauschs: Institutionen, Personen, Quellen (Ende 11. Jh.–­A nfang 13. Jh),” in Germania litteraria mediaevalis Francigena, vol. 1: Die Rezeption lateinischer Wissenschaft, Spiritualität, Bildung und Dichtung aus Frankreich, ed. Fritz Peter Knapp (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2014), 49–138, p. 73. It should be noted that ­t here is one mix up in the list: William of Champeaux, who died in 1121, appears wrongly in the place of Adam of Petit-­Pont (or Balsham). William of Soissons was also not a teacher, but rather a student and ­later friend of John’s. 26. On William of Tyre and his account, see Robert B. C. Huygens, “Guillaume de Tyr etudiant: Un chapitre (XIX, 12) de son ‘Histoire’ retrouve,” Latomus 21 (1962), 811–29. On Everard of Ypres and the Dialogus Ratii, see Nikolaus Martin Häring, “A Latin Dialogue on the Doctrine of Gilbert of Poitiers,” Mediaeval Studies 15 (1953), 243–89; Nikolaus Martin Häring, “The Cistercian Everard of Ypres and His Appraisal of the Conflict Between St.  Bernard and Gilbert of Poitiers,” Mediaeval Studies 17 (1955), 143–72; Peter von Moos, “Der Dialogus Ratii des Everhard von Ypern zwischen theologischer disputatio und Scholaren-­Komödie,” in Peter von Moos, Gesammelte Studien zum Mittelalter, vol. 2: Rhetorik, Kommunikation und Medialität, ed. Gert Melville (Berlin: LIT, 2006), 3–43. For a comparative approach, along with the Metamorphosis Goliae and the account of Otto of Freising, see Southern, Scholastic Humanism, 1, chapter 6. 27. As cited in Hugh of St. Victor, Didascalicon, ed. Offergeld, 250 (c. 3.12), and in John of Salisbury, Policraticus, ed. Webb, 2.145.12 (c. 7.13, 666d): “Mens humilis, studium quaerendi, vita quieta, / scrutinium tacitum, paupertas, terra aliena, / haec reserare solent multis obscura legendo.” On the “dwarves upon the shoulders of ­g iants,” see John of Salisbury, Metalogicon, ed. Hall and Keats-­Rohan, 116 (c. 3.4.46): “Dicebat Bernardus Carnotensis nos esse quasi nanos gigantium humeris insidentes, ut possimus plura eis et remotiora videre, non utique proprii visus acumine aut eminentia corporis, sed quia in altum subvehimur et extollimur magnitudine gigantea.” See also the material in John of Salisbury, Entheticus maior, ed. Laarhoven, 63, n. 72; Haug, “Zwerge.” 28. On William’s praise of the good old “Pythagorean” method, see Chapter  5. Hugh of St. Victor, Didascalicon, ed. Offergeld, 216–69 (c. 3). On Clarembald and his letter of dedication, see Häring, Life, 64f. (no. 5–10).



Notes to Pages 144–148

287

29. Historians of the schools have long focused on working out the cross-references and connections in the sources, as evidenced in certain chapters of Southern, Scholastic Humanism; and Rosier-­Catach, Arts. An example of such detailed study is Karen Margareta Fredborg, “The Dependence of Petrus Helias’ Summa super Priscianum on William of Conches’ Glose super Priscianum,” Cahiers de l’Institut du Moyen Âge grec et latin 11 (1973), 1–57. 30. Ehlers, Hugo, 6. 31. John of Salisbury, Letters, vol. 2: The L ­ ater Letters (1163–1180), ed. and trans. W. J. Millor and Christopher N. L. Brooke (Oxford: Clarendon, 1979), 6 (Ep. 136). 32. John of Salisbury, Entheticus maior, ed. Laarhoven, 115 (c. 1.145f.): “Vilis apud veteres fuerat modus iste loquendi, / lege bona solitos vivere, lege loqui.” See the commentary on sermo rotundus at p. 270. See also Valente, “Phi­los­o­phers.” 33. Although the city would become the home of science, John pre­sents the cathedral canons of Canterbury as the perfect embodiment of the academic community in his day. John of Salisbury, Entheticus maior, ed. Laarhoven, 211f. (3.1643–50). John recognized, however, that it was in cities where one could find the “legis amatores . . . ​et scripta colentes,” t­ hose avid readers who cared ­little for earthly possessions. One could share ­these values without being a monk. John himself expressed monastic inclinations but never followed through on them. 34. Such as Archbishop Bruno of Cologne: Ruotger, Vita Brunonis, 9.14 (c. 8), 31.1 (c. 3). 35. See the quote at the beginning of Chapter 4. 36. Andreas Sohn, Von der Residenz zur Hauptstadt: Paris im hohen Mittelalter (Ostfildern: Thorbecke, 2012); Philippe Lorentz and Dany Sandron, Atlas de Paris au Moyen Âge: Espace urbain, habitat, société, religion, lieux de pouvoir (Paris: Parigramme, 2006); Joachim Ehlers, Otto von Freising: Ein Intellektueller im Mittelalter (Munich: C.  H. Beck, 2013), chapter  2; Simone Roux, Paris au Moyen Âge (Paris: Hachette Littératures, 2003). Essential are Carlrichard Brühl, Palatium und Civitas: Studien zur Profantopographie spätantiker Civitates vom 3. bis zum 13. Jahrhundert, vol. 1 (Cologne: Böhlau, 1975), 6–33; Louis Halphen, Paris sous les premiers Capétiens 987–1223: Étude de topographie historique (Paris: Leroux, 1909). 37. Brühl, Palatium, 10f. 38. Carlrichard Brühl, Fodrum, gistum, servitium regis: Studien zu den wirtschaftlichen Grundlagen des Königtums im Frankenreich und in den fränkischen Nachfolgestaaten Deutschland, Frankreich und Italien vom 6. bis zur Mitte des 14. Jahrhunderts, 2 vols. (Cologne: Böhlau, 1968), 1.240f. and 2, Itinerary Map 6. 39. Sohn, Residenz, 180–85; Ehlers, Otto, 50f. 40. Lorentz and Sandron, Atlas, 28f. On the trades on the Right Bank, see Jacques Boussard and Michel Fleury, Nouvelle histoire de Paris: De la fin du siège de 885–886 à la mort de Philippe Auguste, 2nd  ed. (Paris: Hachette, 1997), 163f., 168; Anne Lombard-­Jourdan, Aux origines de Paris: La genèse de la rive droite jusqu’en 1223, 2nd ed. (Paris: Centre national de la recherche scientifique, 1985), 95f.; Jean Favier, Le bourgeois de Paris au Moyen Âge (Paris: Tallandier, 2012), 56f. 41. Ehlers, Otto, 50f.; Sohn, Residenz, 120–22; Brühl, Palatium, 17. On the wall-­building proj­ect u ­ nder Philip II, see Lombard-­Jourdan, Origines, 75–81. On the reaction of Peter the Chanter, see Baldwin, Masters, 1.71. 42. Godfrey of St. Victor, Notitia et fragmenta, PL 196.1417–22. col. 1420B. 43. Chartularium Universitatis Parisiensis, ed. Heinrich Denifle and Émile Châtelain, 4 vols. (Paris: Delalain, 1889–97), 1.56 (no. 54*): “ ‘Pons’ autem ‘Parvus’ aut pretereuntibus, aut spatiantibus, aut disputantibus logicis didicatus est.” The asterisk (*) denotes Denifle’s separate number for texts from before 1200 on pp. 3–56. 44. William J. Courtenay, Pa­ri­sian Scholars in the Early ­Fourteenth ­Century: A Social Portrait (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999). 45. Lorentz and Sandron, Atlas, 34–37.

288

Notes to Pages 148–150

46. Southern, Scholastic Humanism, 1.203. 47. Bronisław Geremek, Les marginaux parisiens aux XIVe et XVe siècles (Paris: Flammarion, 1976). 48. Jacques de Vitry, Historia Occidentalis, ed. John Frederick Hinnebusch (Fribourg: University Press, 1972), 91. The ­women are said to have mocked the clerici who ­didn’t show interest in them by calling them sodomites. On the dating, see pp. 16–20. 49. Honoré de Balzac, L’interdiction, suivie de la messe de l’athée (Brussels: Wahlen et Cie, Imprimeurs-­Libraires, 1836), 24: “La rue du Fouarre, mot qui signifiait autrefois rue de la Paille, fut au treizième siècle la plus illustre rue de Paris. Là furent les écoles de l’Université, quand la voix d’Abeilard et celle de Gerson retentissaient dans le monde savant. Elle est aujourd’hui l’une des plus sales rues du douzième Arrondissement, le plus pauvre quar­t ier de Paris, celui dans lequel les deux tiers de la population manquent de bois en hiver; celui qui jette le plus de marmots au tour des Enfants-­Trouvés, le plus de malades à l’Hôtel-­Dieu, le plus de mendiants dans les rues; qui envoie le plus de chiffonniers au coin des bornes, le plus de vieillards souffrants le long des murs où rayonne le soleil, le plus d’ouvriers sans travail sur les places, le plus de prévenus à la Police correctionnelle.” On the imagination of the grotesque and of laughter in Balzac’s picture of medieval Paris, see Karlheinz Stierle, Der Mythos von Paris: Zeichen und Bewußsein der Stadt (Munich: Hanser, 1993), 520–44. 50. Rexroth, “Wissenschaft.” 51. Ferruolo, Origins, 281. 52. Chartularium Universitatis Parisiensis, ed. Denifle and Châtelain, 1.23 (no. 21*). 53. Brühl, Palatium, 12. 54. Chartularium Universitatis Parisiensis, ed. Denifle and Châtelain, 1.21–23 (no. 21*). See Denifle’s note on the letter of Thomas Becket to the archbishop of Sens, which the En­g lish chroniclers are aware of. See p.  1.504 (no.  447) on the “university” at the Dominican general chapter meeting in 1274 on the occasion of Aquinas’s death. On the Sorbonne as the m ­ other of German universities using the example of Heidelberg’s anniversary in 1786, see Frank Rexroth, “. . . ​damit die ganze Schule Ruf und Ruhm gewinne: Vom umstrittenen Transfer des Pariser Universitätsmodells nach Deutschland,” in Deutschland und der Westen Europas, ed. Joachim Ehlers (Stuttgart: Thorbecke, 2002), 507–32, p. 523, n. 66. 55. Classen, Studium, 127–69; Classen, Gerhoch, 90f. 56. John of Salisbury, Metalogicon, ed. Hall and Keats-­Rohan, 70–73 (c. 2.10); John Monfasani, Fernando of Cordova: A Biographical and Intellectual Profile (Philadelphia: American Philosophical Society, 1992). 57. Marie-­Dominique Chenu, Das Werk des heiligen Thomas von Aquin (Heidelberg: Kerle, 1960), 16–18, 127. 58. John  W. Baldwin, “Masters at Paris, 1179–1215,” in Re­nais­sance and Renewal in the Twelfth ­Century, ed. Robert Louis Benson and Giles Constable (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1982), 138–72, pp. 148–51. See also the assessment of Nathalie Gorochov regarding the situation in 1208, which w ­ ill be discussed in Chapter 10. 59. Summarized at Southern, Scholastic Humanism, 1.228. Southern believes the figure of Ratius to have been real while Peter von Moos does not. Moos, “Dialogus,” 7f., n. 6. 60. Jan Assmann, Cultural Memory and Early Civilization: Writing, Remembrance, and Po­ liti­cal Imagination (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2011), p.  44f., with recourse to Frances Yates: “The primal ele­ment in all mnemotechnics is placement. . . . ​Significantly, place also plays the main role in collective and cultural mnemotechnics—­t he culture of memory.” See also Aleida Assmann and Dietrich Harth, eds., Mnemosyne: Formen und Funktionen der kulturellen Erinnerung (Frankfurt am Main: Fischer-­Taschenbuch-­Verlag, 1991); Maurice Halbwachs, Les cadres sociaux de la mémoire (Paris: Alcan, 1925); Frances Yates, The Art of Memory (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2001 [orig. 1966]).



Notes to Pages 150–155

289

61. “Arch-­ whiner,” according to Bernd Roling. The following analy­ sis overlaps with Rexroth, “Wissenschaft,” 46–50 especially. John of Hauville, Architrenius, ed. Schmidt. Several attempts to classify the text and its themes within con­temporary lit­er­a­ture have been made. See Bernd Roling, “Das Moderancia-­Konzept des Johannes de Hauvilla: Zur Grundlegung einer neuen Ethik laikaler Lebensbewältigung im 12. Jahrhundert,” Frühmittelalterliche Studien 37 (2003), 167–258. It has also been treated in the tradition of poetics and poetic works that transform knowledge into literary structures: Frank Bezner, “Wissensmythen: Lateinische Literatur und Rationalisierung im 12. Jahrhundert,” Wolframstudien 20 (2008), 41–71. 62. John of Hauville, Architrenius, ed. Schmidt., V.201–26 (c. 3.10). 63. John of Hauville, Architrenius, ed. Schmidt., V.213 (c. 3.10). 64. Karl Langosch, ed., Vagantendichtung, 2nd ed. (Leipzig: Dieterich, 1984), no. 36, str. 1: “Hospita in Gallia / nunc me vocant studia; / vadam ergo, / flens a tergo socios relinquo. / Plangite, discipuli, / lugubris discidii / tempore propinquo!” Paris as urbs sapientiae in str. 8. Translation from Edwin H. Zeydel, Vagabond Verse: Secular Latin Poems of the M ­ iddle Ages (Detroit: Wayne State University Press, 1966), 75. 65. Nigel de Longchamps, “Speculum stultorum,” in The Anglo-­L atin Satirical Poets and Epigrammatists of the Twelfth C ­ entury, ed. Thomas Wright (London: Longman, 1872), 3–145, p. 63. 66. Three Latin Comedies, ed. Keith Bate (Toronto: PIMS, 1976), 21 (V. 163–65): “Dum mihi me reddent patine, focus, uncta popina, / hos asinos, illos esse probabo boves. / Sum logicus: faciam quevis animalia cunctos.” 67. Three Latin Comedies, ed. Bate, 16 (V. 31–34): “Iupiter Almene studeat thalamo, vir Athenis / philosophetur; amet Iupiter, ille legat, / disputet Amphitrion et fallat Iupiter; artes / hic colat, Almenam Iupiter ipse suam.” 68. Robert  R. Bolgar, The Classical Heritage and Its Beneficiaries (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1954), 178–80. 69. Southern, Scholastic Humanism, 1.181–85; Ferruolo, Origins, 98 for an overly literal interpretation of Walter of Châtillon’s poem: “Walter suffered for his learning, not b ­ ecause it was unrewarded but b ­ ecause it had made him too critical to accept the rewards offered.” 70. On Manegold, see Chapter  3. Bruno of Cologne is treated in detail in Constable, “Bruno.” On Hugh of St.  Victor and his background, see Dominique Poirel, “Hugo Saxo: Les origines germaniques de la pensée d’­Hugues de Saint-­Victor,” Francia 33.1 (2006), 163–74, p. 166f. On the chronology of certain familiar sources. Mews, “Memories,” 76f. 71. Hardewin is mentioned e­ arlier in this chapter. William of Tyre, Chronicon, ed. Robert B. C. Huygens, 2 vols., CCCM 63 (Turnhout: Brepols, 1986), 2.879f. (c. 19.12); Baldwin, Masters, 1.148–51. 72. Luscombe, School, 158–64. 73. Joachim Ehlers, “­Grand tour avant la lettre: Schichtenspezifische Mobilität im Früh-­und Hochmittelalter,” in ­Grand Tour: Adeliges Reisen und europäische Kultur vom 14. bis zum 18. Jahrhundert, ed. Rainer Babel and Werner Paravicini (Ostfildern: Thorbecke, 2005), 23–32; Joachim Ehlers, “Die Reform der Christenheit: Studium, Bildung und Wissenschaft als bestimmende Kräfte bei der Entstehung des mittelalterlichen Europa,” in Deutschland und der Westen Europas im Mittelalter, ed. Joachim Ehlers (Stuttgart: Thorbecke, 2002), 177–209; Ehlers, “Studien” (1996); Ehlers, “Deutsche Scholaren.” 74. Ehlers, “Deutsche Scholaren,” 114f. 75. Ehlers, “Deutsche Scholaren,” 102–14. 76. Ehlers, “Studien” (1996). 77. Ehlers, Otto; Rexroth, “Fehltritte.” 78. Helmold of Bosau, Slawenchronik, ed. Heinz Stoob (Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buch­ gesellschaft, 1963), 176–80. See also Ehlers, “Deutsche Scholaren,” 111.

290

Notes to Pages 155–159

79. Geoffrey of Auxerre, Fragmenta ex tertia vita sancti Bernardi, PL 185.523–30. col. 527D. 80. Ehlers, “Studien” (1996), 211. 81. Roger of Howden, Chronica, ed. William Stubbs, 4 vols. (London: Longman, 1868–71), 4.120; Johannes Fried, “Die Rezeption bologneser Rechtswissenschaft in Deutschland im 12. Jahrhundert,” Viator 21 (1990), 103–45, p. 114. 82. Godman, Masters; Ferruolo, Origins; Stephen C. Ferruolo, “Quid dant artes nisi luctum? Learning, Ambition, and ­Careers in the Medieval University,” History of Education Quarterly 28 (1988), 1–22. 83. Bernard of Clairvaux, Sämtliche Werke, 4.236.16 (Ad clericos de conversione 37). 84. Bernd Schneidmüller, “Außenblicke für das eigene Herz: Vergleichende Wahrnehmung politischer Ordnung im hochmittelalterlichen Deutschland und Frankreich,” in Das europäische Mittelalter im Spannungsbogen des Vergleichs: Zwanzig internationale Beiträge zu Praxis, Problemen und Perspektiven der historischen Komparatistik, ed. Michael Borgolte (Berlin: Akademie, 2001), 315–38; Ludwig Schmugge, “Über ‘nationale’ Vorurteile im Mittelalter,” Deutsches Archiv für Erforschung des Mittelalters 38 (1982), 439–59. 85. Ludus de Antichristo, ed. Rolf Engelsing (Stuttgart: Reclam, 1968), 28 (V. 219–26). 86. John of Salisbury, Entheticus maior, ed. Laarhoven, 380 (c. 3.1341). 87. John of Salisbury, Letters, vol. 1: The Early Letters (1153–1161), ed. and trans. W. J. Millor et al. (London: Thomas Nelson, 1955), 206f. (Ep. 124). 88. On this topos in the research of the 1980s, see Astrik Ladislas Gabriel, “Translatio studii: Spurious Dates of Foundation of Some Early Universities,” in Fälschungen im Mittelalter, Teil 1: Kongreßdaten und Festvorträge Literatur und Fälschung, MGH Schriften 33.1 (Hanover: Hahnsche Buchhandlung, 1988), 601–26; Franz Josef Worstbrock, “Translatio atrium: Über die Herkunft und Entwicklung einer kulturhistorischen Theorie,” in Franz Josef Worstbrock, Ausgewählte Schriften, vol. 1: Schriften zur Literatur des Mittelalters, ed. Andreas Krass and Susanne Köbele (Stuttgart: Hirzel, 2004), 137–56; Adriaan Gerard Jongkees, “Translatio Studii: Les avatars d’un thème médiéval,” in Miscellanea mediaevalia in memoriam Jan Frederik Niermeyer, ed. D. P. Blok (Groningen: Wolters, 1967), 41–51. 89. On Gerhoh: Classen, Gerhoch. 90. Gerhoh of Reichersberg, Epistolae, PL 193.489–618. col. 585A: “Sed quia residuum bruchi parata est comedere locusta, succedunt malis mala. Nam de fumo putei abyssi, ut Joannes in Apocalypsi praevidit, nunc exierunt locustae, videlicet plures discipuli Petri Abailensis.” See also Classen, Gerhoch, 91, 336f. (Regest. 21). 91. Gerhoh of Reichersberg, Libelli selecti, ed. Ernst Sackur, MGH LdL 3 (Hanover: Hahnsche Buchhandlung, 1897), 131–525, p. 235.34. On the magistri Francigenae, see Classen, Gerhoch, 318, no. 6. 92. Gerhoh of Reichersberg, Letter to Pope Hadrian About the Novelties of the Day, ed. Nikolaus M. Häring (Toronto: PIMS, 1974), 82 (Letter 22.14): “Quomodo, inquis, potuerunt hec fieri? Et ego dico tibi: Tu es magister in Frantia et hec ignoras?” 93. Classen, Gerhoch, 163; Heinrich Fichtenau, “Ein französischer Frühscholastiker in Wien,” Jahrbuch für Landeskunde von Niederösterreich, N. F. 29 (1944/48), 118–30. The ­g reat historian Fichtenau was at this early point still u ­ nder the influence of old ideas of national essentialism. The young Erich Meuthen similarly emphasized the antithesis between German and French thinking. Erich Meuthen, Kirche und Heilsgeschichte bei Gerhoch von Reichersberg (Leiden: Brill, 1959), 8. For a dif­fer­ent approach to the question of a “German” intellectual tradition, see Sturlese, Philosophie. 94. On John of Salisbury as a “hired pen,” see Engen, “Letters,” 125. 95. On Vacarius, see Southern, Scholastic Humanism, 2.155–66. 96. Stefanie Jansen, Wo ist Thomas Becket? Der ermordete Heilige zwischen Erinnerung und Erzählung (Husum: Matthiesen, 2002).



Notes to Pages 159–162

291

97. Christopher Robert Cheney, En­glish Bishops’ Chanceries, 1100–1250 (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1950), 97f. (chapter 3): the charters of the first half of the ­century “might have been composed and written by anybody” while the ­later ones “show a high standard of expertness in the clerks who drafted and wrote them.” On the broader qualitative literary change in ­England during the time of Henry II, see Michael T. Clanchy, From Memory to Written Rec­ord: ­England 1066–1307, 2nd ed. (Oxford: Wiley-­Blackwell, 1993); Frank Rexroth, “Kodifizieren und Auslegen: Symbolische Grenzziehungen zwischen päpstlich-gesetzgeberischer und gelehrter Praxis im späteren Mittelalter (1209/10–1317),” Frühmittelalterliche Studien 41 (2007), 395–414, p. 402f. 98. Wibald of Stablo and Corvey, Briefbuch, ed. Martina Hartmann, 3 vols., MGH BdK 9.1–3 (Hanover: Hahnsche Buchhandlung, 2012), 1.290f. (Ep. 142). See also Knut Görich, Friedrich Barbarossa: Eine Biographie (Munich: C. H. Beck, 2011), 198f. 99. Görich, Friedrich, 199; Peter Classen, Burgundio von Pisa: Richter, Gesandter, Übersetzer (Heidelberg: Winter, 1974), 34 (quote). 100. Classen, Burgundio, 28f. 101. Görich, Friedrich, 202–6; Ehlers, Otto, 168f.; Die Urkunden Friedrichs I: 1158–1167, ed. Heinrich Appelt, Rainer Maria Herkenrath, and Walter Koch, MGH DD 10.2 (Hanover: Hahnsche Buchhandlung, 1979), 479–81 (no. 534). 102. Görich, Friedrich, 202–6. 103. This sentiment is central to Classen, Gerhoch. 104. Charles  S.  F. Burnett, “Arabic into Latin: The Reception of Arabic Philosophy into Western Eu­rope,” in The Cambridge Companion to Arabic Philosophy, ed. Peter Adamson and Richard C. Taylor (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005), 370–404, p. 370. On thought about the potential of acquiring Arabic knowledge following Adelard’s translations, see Andreas Speer, “Wissen über Grenzen: Arabisches Wissen und lateinisches Mittelalter,” in Wissen über Grenzen: Arabisches Wissen und lateinisches Mittelalter, ed. Andreas Speer and Lydia Wegener (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2006), xiii–­x xiii, pp. xvii–­x ix. 105. Biographical information can be found in Al-­Fārābī, Über die Wissenschaften—­De scientiis: Nach der lateinischen Übersetzung Gerhards von Cremona, ed. Franz Schupp (Hamburg: Meiner, 2005), lviii–­lxiii. On the tradition that he was a doctor, see Charles  S.  F. Burnett, “Communities of Learning in Twelfth-­Century Toledo,” in Communities of Learning: Networks and the Shaping of Intellectual Identity in Eu­rope, 1100–1500, ed. Constant J. Mews and John N. Crossley (Turnhout: Brepols, 2011), 9–18, p. 12. 106. Charles S. F. Burnett, “The Coherence of the Arabic-­Latin Translation Program in Toledo in the Twelfth ­Century,” Science in Context 14.1–2 (2001), 249–88, p. 275; Burnett, “Communities,” 13. On Daniel of Morley’s impression of study in Paris, see Chapter 9. 107. Alexander Fidora, “Religious Diversity and the Philosophical Translations of Twelfth-­ Century Toledo,” in Communities of Learning: Networks and the Shaping of Intellectual Identity in Eu­rope, 1100–1500, ed. Constant J. Mews and John N. Crossley (Turnhout: Brepols, 2011), 19– 35; Dag Nikolaus Hasse, “The Social Conditions of the Arabic-(Hebrew-)Latin Translation Movements in Medieval Spain and in the Re­nais­sance,” in Wissen über Grenzen, ed. Speer and Wegener, 68–86, p. 72 with further information. On the role of Jews in the acquisition of Arab-­ Islamic knowledge by Christian scholars, see Mauro Zonta, “The Jewish Mediation in the Transmission of Arabo-­Islamic Science and Philosophy to the Latin M ­ iddle Ages: Historical Overview and Perspectives of Research,” in Wissen über Grenzen, ed. Speer and Wegener, 89–105, p. 94 on the two-­stage translation pro­cess. 108. Fidora, Wissenschaftstheorie, 191–93; Fidora, “Dominicus” (2006), 482. 109. Fidora, “Religious Diversity.” 110. Domingo Gundisalvo, De divisione philosophiae, ed. Baur, 15 (prol.): “Huius autem tripartite partis theorice communis utilitas est cognoscere disposiciones omnium que sunt ad

292

Notes to Pages 162–165

hoc ut describatur in animabus nostris forma tocius esse secundum ordinem suum, quemadmodum forma visibilis describitur in speculo.” Practical philosophy was seen as “useful” not in the sense that it could predict what would happen in the world but b ­ ecause it taught what was good in it. It was more about orientation than application. On the l­ater fate of ­t hese two concepts of scientific utility—­t he personal versus the external and practical—­see Marcel Bubert, Kreative Gegensätze: Der Streit um den Nutzen der Philosophie an der mittelalterlichen Pariser Universität (Leiden: Brill, 2019). 111. David E. Luscombe, “Crossing Philosophical Bound­a ries, c. 1150–­c . 1250,” in Crossing Bound­aries at Medieval Universities, ed. Spencer E. Young (Leiden: Brill, 2011), 9–27, pp. 15–20. On the work of translation, see Burnett, “Arabic.” On the evidence available in Spain and Portugal, see Hasse, “Conditions,” 68–75. 112. On the state of knowledge before its arrival, see Domingo Gundisalvo, De divisione philosophiae: Über die Einteilung der Philosophie, ed. and trans. Alexander Fidora and Dorothée Werner (Freiburg im Breisgau: Herder, 2007), 40–50. See also the works of Claude Lafleur in Chapter 10. 113. Hasse, “Conditions,” 80, n. 67. 114. Al-­Fārābī, Über die Wissenschaften, xix–­x xxiii, p. xxii especially. 115. Domingo Gundisalvo, De divisione philosophiae, ed. Baur, 3: “Felix prior etas, que tot sapientes protulit, quibus velut stellis mundi tenebras irradiavit. Quot enim ipsi sciencias ediderunt, quasi tot faculas nobis ad illuminandum nostre mentis ignorantiam reliquerunt.” It is not surprising that a fifteenth-­century writer could misread faculas for facultates. On this manuscript, see p. 151. This passage is in­ter­est­ing ­because Gundisalvo expresses himself quite differently in his translation of Al-­Fārābī. Frank Rexroth, “Die Einheit der Wissenschaft und der Eigensinn der Disziplinen: Zur Konkurrenz zweier Denkformen im 12. und 13. Jahrhundert,” Deutsches Archiv für Erforschung des Mittelalters 67 (2011), 19–50, p. 34. See also Fidora, Wissenschaftstheorie, 193f.

Chapter 8 1. See the first section of Chapter 5. 2. Simon of Tournai, Disputationes, ed. Joseph Warichez (Louvain: Spicilegium Sacrum Lovaniense, 1932), 94 (Disputatio 31.3). 3. Gerald of Wales, Opera, vol. 2: Gemma ecclesiastica, ed. John S. Brewer (London: Longman, 1862), 187f. (c. 2.6). 4. Peter’s ­later letters are discussed further in the current chapter. 5. Peter of Blois, ­Later Letters, ed. Elizabeth Revell (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1993), xxvif.; Southern, Scholastic Humanism, 2.178–218. On his time as an expert and the profile of the questions he received, see pp. 209–11. See also the discussion l­ater in this chapter. On Peter’s biography, see John  D. Cotts, The Clerical Dilemma: Peter of Blois and Literate Culture in the Twelfth ­Century (Washington, D.C.: Catholic University of Amer­i­ca Press, 2009), chapter 1. On the last phase of his life as an archdeacon in London, which is of special interest to us, see Egbert Türk, Pierre de Blois: Ambitions et remords sous les Plantegenêts (Turnhout: Brepols, 2006), 534– 57. On the sources of his letter collection and its versions, see Lena Wahlgren, The Letter Collections of Peter of Blois: Studies in the Manuscript Tradition (Göteborg: Acta Universitatis Gothoburgensis, 1993). 6. Charles S. F. Burnett, “Confessio fidei ad Heloisam: Abelard’s Last Letter to Heloise? A Discussion and Critical Edition of the Latin and Medieval French Versions,” Mittellateinisches Jahrbuch 21 (1986), 147–55, p. 152; Bernard of Clairvaux, Epistolae, PL 182.67–716. col. 540C (Ep. 337): “cum per totam fere Galliam in civitatibus, vicis, et castellis, a scholaribus, non solum intra scholas, sed etiam triviatim; nec a litteratis aut provectis tantum, sed a pueris et simplicibus, aut certe stultis, de sancta Trinitate, quae Deus est, disputaretur.”



Notes to Pages 165–167

293

7. On the case of Abelard, see Chapter 5 above. A classic work on the correspondence between students and their families is Charles Homer Haskins, “The Life of Medieval Students as Illustrated in Their Letters,” American Historical Review 3 (1898), 203–29, p.  208f. The quote comes from the Antiqua Rhetorica of Boncompagno da Signa, who was himself a Bolognese doctor. 8. This idea is discussed in the first section of Chapter 2. 9. On the vetulae and Buridan’s ­ later practice of determining their opinion quasi-­ experimentally, see Christophe Grellard, “How Is It Pos­si­ble to Believe Falsely? John Buridan, the Vetula, and the Psy­chol­ogy of Error,” in Uncertain Knowledge: Scepticism, Relativism, and Doubt in the ­Middle Ages, ed. Dallas G. Denery, Kantik Ghosh, and Nicolette Zeeman (Turnhout: Brepols, 2014), 91–113. 10. Herman of Scheda, Hermannus quondam Judaeus: Opusculum de conversione sua, ed. Gerlinde Niemeyer, MGH QQ zur Geistesgesch. 4 (Weimar: Böhlau, 1963), 107 (Opusc. 12). On this case, see Jean-­Claude Schmitt, La conversion d’Hermann le juif: Autobiographie, histoire et fiction (Paris: Seuil, 2003). On the question of its authenticity, see Peter Hilsch, “Die Bekehrungsschrift des Hermannus quondam Iudaeus und die Frage ihrer Authentizität,” Deutsches Archiv für Erforschung des Mittelalters 66 (2010), 69–91. 11. William of Conches, Philosophia mundi, ed. Maurach, 27 (c. 20): “patens est lippis et tonsoribus”: hence, a proof is superfluous. The model h ­ ere is Horace. 12. Moos, Gesammelte Studien 3, 296f. 13. Aristotle, Philosophische Schriften, trans. Rolfes, 2.1 (Topic 100b). Knowledge of this definition was mediated through its use in Boethius, De differentiis topicis, PL 64.1180C (c. 1). 14. Weijers, Search, chapter 1. Hugh of St. Victor, Didascalicon, ed. Offergeld, 252 (c. 3.13): “Quod tu non nosti, fortassis novit Ofellus.” See Ofellus rusticus in Horace, Satires, Epistles, and Ars Poetica, ed. H. Rushton Fairclough (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1926), 1–7 (no. 2). While this passage may be a jab against Abelard’s school, it is worth noting that Abelard himself used the opinio hominum as the starting point for his inquiries. See, for example Abelard, Collationes, ed. and trans. Marenbon and Orlandi, 114–18 (c. 2.98). 15. Spencer  E. Young, Scholarly Community at the Early University of Paris: Theologians, Education and Society, 1215–1248 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2014), 58, on how the Pa­ri­sian theologians established the communis opinio for questions treated in their sentences. See also Catherine König-­ Pralong, “Evaluations des savoirs d’importation dans l’université médiévale: Henri de Gand en position d’expert,” Revue européenne des sciences sociales 46 (2008), 11–28, p. 14, n. 12. On the ­later institutionalization of ­legal science, see Susanne Lepsius, “Communis opinio doctorum,” in Handwörterbuch zur deutschen Rechtsgeschichte, vol. 1, ed. Albrecht Cordes et al., 2nd ed. (Berlin: Schmidt, 2008), cols. 875–77. The scholastic use of common opinion has been described as the “re-­entry” of a “distinction into an arena originally differentiated by the distinction itself.” Rudolf Stichweh, “Wissen und die Professionen in einer Organisationsgesellschaft,” in Organisation und Profession: Organisation und Gesellschaft, ed. Thomas Klatetzki and Veronika Tacke (Wiesbaden: VS Verlag, 2005), 31–44, p. 36. 16. Rupert of Deutz, De gloria et honore filii hominis super Mattheum, ed. Raban Haacke O.S.B., CCCM 29 (Turnhout: Brepols, 1979), 363 (c. 12.11): “Verus ergo et fidelis sermo, quem dicit, quia ‘cum aspicerem animalia, apparuit rota una,’ et cetera.” The interpretation follows. 17. Bernard of Clairvaux, Sämtliche Werke, ed. Winkler, 4.236.16 (Ad clericos de conversione 37). 18. On the follow issues, see Rexroth, “Monastischer Habitus.” 19. Moos, Gesammelte Studien 3, 411: “In the twelfth c­ entury, two so antagonistic movements as monastic spirituality and dialectical intellectualism could agree on at least this one point: both looked down upon opinion and sensual experience as most deceptive and vulgar forms of perception, ones which both the pious monk and the rational phi­los­o­pher had to overcome at all costs.”

294

Notes to Pages 168–171

20. Otto Mauch, Der lateinische Begriff Disciplina: Eine Wortuntersuchung (Fribourg: Paulusdruckerei, 1941); Gabriel Jüssen and Gangolf Schrimpf, “Disciplina, doctrina,” Historisches Wörterbuch der Philosophie 2 (1972), cols. 256–61; Wendelin Knoch, “Disciplina, I: In der scholastischen und monastischen Tradition,” LMA 3 (1986), cols. 1106–8; Olga Weijers, “L’appellation des disciplines dans les classifications des sciences aux XIIe et XIIIe siècles,” in Knowledge and Science in Medieval Philosophy: Proceedings of the Eighth International Congress of Medieval Philosophy, ed. Simo Knuuttila, Reijo Työrinoja, and Sten Ebbesen (Helsinki: Yliopistopaino, 1990), 113–15. For a distinction between the disciplines based on their rules, see the quote of Alan of Lille in the last section of Chapter 4. Right ­a fter it he takes the reader on a voyage through the sciences, listing their respective regulae. 21. William of Malmesbury, Gesta regum Anglorum, ed. Roger  A.  B. Mynors, Rodney  M. Thomson, and Michael Winterbottom, 2 vols. (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1998), 1.526 (c. 3.292): “in tanto numero discentium, in tam tristi pallore lucubrantium, vix aliquis plenam scientiae laudem referat.” 22. See the second section of Chapter 6. 23. Frank Rexroth, “Die Universität war der Freiraum! Ein Blick zurück auf die Autonomie der mittelalterlichen Wissenschaft,” Georgia Augusta 7 (2010), 15–21. 24. Isaac of Stella, Sermones, ed. Buchmüller and Kohout-­Berghammer, 3.768–79 (Sermo 48). Translation: Isaac of Stella, Sermons on the Christian Year, Volume 2: Sermons 27–55 and Fragments 1–3, trans. Lewis White (Collegeville, Minn.: Liturgical Press, 2019), 151 (no. 48.3–4). See also Wolfgang Gottfried Buchmüller, Isaak von Etoile: Monastische Theologie im Dialog mit dem Neo-­Platonismus des 12. Jahrhunderts (Münster: Aschendorff, 2016). 25. Translation by author. 26. Isaac of Stella, Sermones, ed. Buchmüller and Kohout-­Berghammer, 3.768–79 (Sermo 48). Translation: Isaac of Stella, Sermons, trans. White, 151f. (no. 48.5f.). 27. Delisle, ed., Recueil, 14.445B (quote): “et instar rhinocerotis indomiti disciplinae coercendum ligamento.” See also Robl, “Goswin.” On Goswin’s reputation as an enforcer of discipline and reform, see p. 282f. especially. 28. Delisle, ed., Recueil, 14.445C: “honeste tantum se haberet, et omnibus esset magister ­et  exemplar honestatis. Haec honeste perorabat vir honestatis amator et honestissimus honestorum.” 29. Delisle, ed., Recueil, 14.445D: “Quid, inquiens, tam multipliciter honestatem praedicas, honestatem suades, laudas honestatem? Multi sunt qui disputant de speciebus honestatis, qui nesciunt quid sit honestas.” By speciebus he means dialectical concepts. 30. Horace, Satires, ed. Fairclough, 354 (Ep. 1.16.52): “oderunt peccare boni virtutis amore. / tu nihil admittes in te formidine poenae.” Abelard turns this passage into a sententia de morum honestate. Abelard, Ethics, ed. David  E. Luscombe (Oxford: Clarendon, 1971), 72.33. Also explained in detail in Abelard, Opera theologica II, ed. Buytaert, 132 (Theologia “Christiana” 2.27). See also AHLett. 340 (Ep. 7.44). 31. John of Salisbury, Entheticus maior, ed. Laarhoven, 214f. (c. 3.1701–18). 32. John of Salisbury, Historia pontificalis, ed. Chibnall, 26: “Memini me ipsum [John as a chronicler and participant of the events] ex parte abbatis episcopum sollicitasse quatinus convenirent in aliquo religioso loco, sive in Pictavia sive in Francia sive in Burgundia, ubi episcopo visum esset, ut amice et sine contentione conferrent super dictis beati Hylarii. Ille vero respondit iam satis esse quod hucusque contenderant, et abbatem, si plenam intelligenciam Hylarii affectaret, prius in disciplinis liberalibus et aliis prediscendis plenius instrui oportere. Erant tamen ambo optime litterati et admodum eloquentes sed dissimilibus studiis.” 33. Lottin, Psychologie, 176: “Videndum est, Domine, ne illa questio, que apud vos sic agitatur, non in sententia, sed in pugnis verborum sit. Rectos sensus discutere virorum est, de verbulis litigare puerorum est, qui non nisi tenuiter intelligunt que dicunt, vel audiunt.” This letter



Notes to Pages 171–175

295

is also the one with the remark that “sententiae, although diversae, are not necessarily adversae.” See the discussion of this idea in Chapter 5. On the subject of the letter as a ­whole, see Ott, Untersuchungen, 40–42. On another letter fragment attributed to Anselm of Laon although it is transmitted ­u nder the name of Anselm of Canterbury, see Lottin, Psychologie, 143. 34. For an introduction, see Rexroth, “Transformationen,” 72–74 with the notes. The quote is from Godman, Masters, xi. See ­there his equally critical take on the “muddled humbug of humanism,” which he sees as a mere “slogan,” and on “something called, in defiance of oxymoron, ‘scholastic humanism’ ” (clearly directed against Richard Southern). It obviously does ­little good to interpret t­ hese phenomena according to the standards of their time. For some thinly veiled criticism of Haskins and his view, see the first half of Chapter 1. 35. Charles Stephen Jaeger, “Pessimism in the Twelfth-­C entury Re­nais­sance,” Speculum 78 (2003), 1151–83; Jan-­Hendryk de Boer, Die Gelehrtenwelt ordnen: Zur Genese des hegemonialen Humanismus um 1500 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2017); Jan-­Hendryk de Boer, “Wie aus Agon Antagonismus wird: Scholastisch-­humanistische Grenzpolitik um 1500,” HZ 303 (2016), 643–70. 36. Exemplary is Jürgen Link, Normale Krisen? Normalismus und die Krise der Gegenwart (Constance: University of Constance Press, 2013). 37. Jan A. Aertsen and Andreas Speer, eds., Individuum und Individualität im Mittelalter (Berlin: De Gruyter, 1996); Otto Gerhard Oexle, “Memoria als Kultur,” in Memoria als Kultur, ed. Otto Gerhard Oexle (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1995), 9–78, pp.  48–53; Colin Morris, The Discovery of the Individual, 1050–1200 (New York: Harper and Row, 1972). On Abelard’s case, see Arlinghaus, “Petrus”; Richard  W. Southern, Medieval Humanism and Other Studies (Oxford: Blackwell, 1970). Influential for the idea of a “humanism of the twelfth c­ entury” was David Knowles, “The Humanism of the Twelfth C ­ entury,” Studies: An Irish Quarterly Review 30 (1941), 43–58. 38. The rhetorical tradition in scholastic discourse is traced in Catherine König-­Pralong, “Rhetorik gegen Spekulation: Ein Antagonismus der scholastischen Bildungsgeschichte,” in Schüler und Meister, ed. Andreas Speer and Thomas Jeschke (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2016), 45–58. 39. Kluxen, “Begriff.” See also Wolfgang Kluxen, “Wissenschaftliche Rationalität im 12. Jahr­ hundert: Aufgang einer Epoche,” in Aufbruch, Wandel, Erneuerung: Beiträge zur “Re­nais­sance” des 12. Jahrhunderts, ed. Georg Wieland (Stuttgart: Frommann-­Holzboog, 1995), 89–99. 40. Kluxen, “Begriff,” 287. I do not subscribe to Kluxen’s idea that scientific princi­ples inhibited education at the universities. It is worth considering that the largest faculty was dedicated to the liberal arts rather than to “philosophy.” 41. J.  G.  F. Powell, “The Manuscripts and Text of Cicero’s Laelius de amicitia,” Classical Quarterly 48 (1998), 506–18, p. 516. On the manuscript evidence, see Birger Munk Olsen, L’Étude des auteurs classiques latins aux XIe et XIIe siècles, vol. 3.2 [3 vols./5 parts] (Paris: CNRS, 1987). Treatises on friendship w ­ ere authored by Aelred of Rievaulx, the younger Peter of Blois (based on Aelred’s), and the Bolognese-­Paduan rhetorician Boncompagno da Signa. 42. Engen, “Letters,” 104. 43. Ott, Untersuchungen, 8–18. 44. Bernard of Clairvaux, Sämtliche Werke, ed. Winkler, vols. 2–3 (Epistolae); Peter the Venerable, Letters, ed. Constable; Hildebert of Lavardin, Epistolae. On rote memorization, see Peter of Blois, Epistolae, PL 207.314A (Ep. 101). William of Saint-­Th ierry and Rupert of Deutz, both known to us, belong to the monastic tradition. Aelred of Rievaulx’s letters are unfortunately all lost except for a dedicatory letter. Anselm Hoste, Bibliotheca Aelrediana: A Survey of the Manuscripts, Old Cata­logues, Editions and Studies concerning St. Aelred of Rievaulx (The Hague: Nijhoff, 1962), 15, 137–39; Pierre-­A ndré Burton, Bibliotheca Aelrediana secunda: Une biblio­graphie cumulative (1962–1996) (Louvain-­La-­Neuve: Fédération Internationale des Instituts d’Études Médiévales, 1997), 163.

296

Notes to Pages 175–177

45. John of Salisbury, Letters, vols. 1–2; Peter of Celle, Letters, ed. Julian Haseldine (Oxford: Clarendon, 2001). 46. Gilbert Foliot, The Letters and Charters of Gilbert Foliot, ed. Adrian Morey and Christopher N. L. Brooke (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1967). See also Morey and Brooke, Gilbert. 47. Arnulf of Lisieux, The Letters of Arnulf of Lisieux, ed. Frank Barlow (London: Royal Historical Society, 1939); Peter of Blois, Epistolae; Peter of Blois, ­Later Letters, ed. Revell. On Peter of Blois, see the beginning of this chapter. 48. Described as the “Golden Age of medieval epistolography” in Giles Constable, Letters and Letter-­Collections (Turnhout: Brepols, 1976), 31. 49. Aurélie Reinbold, “Les cercles de l’amitié dans la correspondance d’Adam de Perseigne (1188–1221),” Annales de Bretagne 120 (2013), 87–98; Matthias Witzleb, “Ein Netzwerk in Briefen: Die Korrespondenz des Benediktinerabts Petrus von Montier-­la-­Celle (ca. 1145/46–1162/63)” (PhD diss., University of Göttingen, 2008); Walter Ysebaert, “Medieval Letter Collections as a Mirror of Circles of Friendship? The Example of Stephen of Tournai, 1128–1203,” Revue belge de philologie et d’histoire 83 (2005), 285–300; Richard U. Smith, “Was Bernard a Friend? A Question Revisited,” Analecta Cisterciensia 53 (1997), 15–44; John P. McLoughlin, “Amicitia in Practice: John of Salisbury (c. 1120–1180) and His Circle,” in ­England in the Twelfth C ­ entury: Proceedings of the 1988 Harlaxton Symposium, ed. Daniel Williams (Woodbridge: Boydell, 1990), 165–80. 50. Christian Høgel and Elisabetta Bartoli, Medieval Letters: Between Fiction and Document (Turnhout: Brepols, 2015); Walter Ysebaert, “Medieval Letters and Letter Collections as Historical Sources: Methodological Questions, Reflections, and Research Perspectives (Sixth-­ Fifteenth Centuries),” in Medieval Letters: Between Fiction and Document, ed. Christian Høgel and Elisabetta Bartoli (Turnhout: Brepols, 2015), 33–62; Jürgen Herold, “Die Interpretation mittelalterlicher Briefe zwischen historischem Befund und Medientheorie,” in Text, Bild, Schrift: Vermittlung von Information im Mittelalter, ed. Andres Laubinge, Brunhilde Gedderth, and Claudia Dobrinski (Munich: Fink, 2007), 101–26; Engen, “Letters.” On the last-­named practice, see Bezner, “Wissensmythen.” Other con­temporary texts are relevant ­here such as the Cosmographia of Bernardus Silvestris, the Anticlaudianus of Alan of Lille, and—­again—­t he Architrenius of John of Hauville. 51. On Anselm and Heribrand, see ­earlier in this chapter. 52. This gap was disregarded by the greatest expert on con­temporary letters: Constable, Letters, 31: “For the following two centuries at least a few letters have survived from almost ­every literary figure of note and from many of no note at all!” On the supposed letters of Peter Lombard, see Ott, Untersuchungen, 80–82. On Peter the Chanter, see the outline of his works in Peter the Chanter, Verbum adbreviatum: Textus conflatus, ed. Monique Boutry, CCCM 196 (Turnhout: Brepols, 2004), xxii. 53. Lucien Merlet, “Lettres d’Ives de Chartres et d’autres personnages de son temps, 1087– 1130,” Bibliothèque de l’École des chartes 16 (1955), 443–71, p. 461; Ott, Untersuchungen, 89f. 54. For this tip, I thank Jan-­Hendryk de Boer at the University of Duisburg-­Essen. 55. For the scholastics, I rely on the entries in Schönberger et  al., eds., Repertorium. The reference t­ here to Gratian is misleading. Ludwig Ott’s work on theological letters focuses for the most part on Walter of Mortagne and the Victorines. Ott, Untersuchungen. 56. Ysebaert, “Letter Collections” (2005), 291. 57. Such as the careerists who studied only to attain high office. See, for example, the story of a student who planned out his entire life path from the beginning of his studies to becoming a dominus legum only to meet a sudden death: Charles Homer Haskins, “The University of Paris in the Sermons of the Thirteenth ­Century,” American Historical Review 10 (1904), 1–27, p. 12. Satires on scholastic life like to point out such misadventures: Ferruolo, Origins, 93f.



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297

58. Reading is to leisure what a strenuous pilgrimage is to the daily stroll: Illich, Vineyard, 63–65. On the practical use of the term otium, see the index in Peter Damian, Briefe, ed. Reindel, 4.486. While spiritale or monasteriale otium is conducive to monkish contemplation, other combinations are suspect: otiosa deliramenta, otiosa fa­bula, otiosa confabulatio, and otium ignobilis vitae. From Augustine comes the idea of a m ­ iddle path between the “leisurely” and “busy” lifestyles: José Oroz Reta, “L’otium chez saint Augustin,” in Les loisirs et l’héritage de la culture Classique, ed. Jean-­Marie André, Jaqueline Dangel, and Paul Demont (Brussels: Latomus, 1996), 434–40. 59. The Seneca quote (Ep. 82.3) appears in a scholarly letter written by John of Salisbury to the count of Champagne: “Otium sine litteris mors est, et vivi hominis sepultura.” John of Salisbury, Letters 2, ed. and trans. Millor and Brooke, 334 (Ep. 209). See also Peter of Blois, ­Later Letters, ed. Revell, 36 (Ep. 5.129, quote attributed to Jerome). 60. Peter of Blois, ­Later Letters, ed. Revell, 36 (Ep. 5, quote at 5.131): “Est tamen otium quod edificat ad salutem, nam vacare a curis et sollicitudinibus huius mundi, et legere ac studere, otium quidem negotiosum est et negotium otiosum.” 61. Peter of Blois, ­Later Letters, ed. Revell, 56 (Ep. 10.84). The pope ­here is Urban III. Hugo Metellus, Epistolae, 385 to a certain Humbert, once a phi­los­o­pher now a theologian: “Simul . . . ​ adulti fuimus, simul manum ferulae supposuimus, simul progressu temporis in grammatica desudavimus, simul in castris Aristotelis, in Tullio simul declamavi tecum, in Arithmetica numeravi tecum, in Musica mussitavi tecum, sub geminis natus sum tecum, sub geminis moriar tecum.” With variations in Hugo Metellus, Epistolae, PL.188.1269–76. col. 1271f. 62. Peter of Blois was drawn to the l­egal science at a young age before turning away. See the first part of Chapter 9. 63. Arnulf of Lisieux, Letters, ed. Barlow, 2 (Ep. 1) for the quotation. Engen, “Letters,” 112f. Peter of Blois, who had nothing against an ecclesiastical c­ areer, treats pastoral care as the ars artium, the chief discipline. Peter of Blois, Epistolae, PL 207.393A (Ep. 132). He also looked back on a past in which one moved about intellectually as if in a fragrant garden: Peter of Blois, ­Later Letters, ed. Revell, 146 (Ep. 29.13). 64. Constable, Letters, 32f. with reference to Haskins. 65. Hugo Metellus often employs this topos in his letters, for example, in Hugo Metellus, Epistolae, ed. Hugo, 348f. (Ep. 16 to Heloise): “Audite ergo qui sim ego, qui fuerim ego, nominor ego Hugo Metellus, genuit me Leucha Tellus [Toul], qui olim musis associatus fere totum hausi heliconem, qui radio totam depinxi Coeli regionem, qui inveniendi, indicandique palmo clausi rationem versibus pentametris et hexametris, rithmisque centimetris, qui ludere saepe solebam, et ut salva pace vestra loquar, qui jocunde dessipiebam.” 66. John of Salisbury, Letters 2, ed. and trans. Millor and Brooke, 20 (Ep. 139): “Ego vero nec dubito de sapientia vestra quam litterarum copia tum rerum experientia comparastis tum (quod primum est) suscepistis ex gratia.” 67. On scientific reservations ­toward sensory experience, see ­earlier in this chapter. The quote is from John of Salisbury, Letters 1, ed. and trans. Millor et al., 63 (Ep. 35). 68. On the difference between the two, see Peter of Blois, ­Later Letters, ed. Revell, 299 (Ep. 68.55). He begins with reflection on what it means to know about bad ­t hings or to have experienced them personally. The quote, whose origins the editor could not determine, comes from Boethius, De differentiis topicis, PL 64.1184B (c. 2). Weighing experience against knowledge was not uncommon even beforehand: Ivo of Chartres, Correspondance, ed. Leclercq, 20 (Ep. 6), 126 (Ep. 31). 69. Examples from Peter of Blois, ­Later Letters, ed. Revell, 52–98 (Epp. 10, 13, 14, 16). The liber experientie appears in Epp. 1, 7, 13, 28. See p. 127 (Ep. 28.37) where it is the antithesis of the academic world: “Legimus in libro experientie quod homines plurimi, licet in mortali peccato

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Notes to Pages 179–182

iaceant, subtiles tamen sententias de suo spiritu exponendo producunt.” He seems to think that scholastic theological positions are often wrong. 70. This observation appears already in Southern, Scholastic Humanism, 2.209–11. 71. Peter of Blois, ­Later Letters, ed. Revell, 5 (Ep. 1.47), 38 (Ep. 6.36), 56 (Ep. 10.92). The usus publicus is shown h ­ ere to be obligatory: one must act and operate according to it. See Peter Hibst, Utilitas Publica, Gemeiner Nutz, Gemeinwohl, Europäische Hochschulschriften (Frankfurt am Main: Peter Lang, 1991), 180–84, on John of Salisbury. On the word field around bonum commune in texts from the ­m iddle of the thirteenth ­century, see Matthew S. Kempshall, The Common Good in Late Medieval Po­liti­cal Thought (Oxford: Clarendon, 1999), 10f. 72. Peter of Blois, ­Later Letters, ed. Revell, 50 (Ep. 9.8): “in libro publice opinionis adhuc assidue lego.” 73. Aristotle, Philosophische Schriften, 3.135 (Nicomachean Ethics 1140a); Andreas Luckner, Klugheit (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2005). 74. John of Salisbury, Letters 1, ed. and trans. Millor et al., 102 (Ep. 61), 116 (Ep. 72); Arnulf of Lisieux, Letters, ed. Barlow, 12 (Ep. 8). 75. Audry Bettant, “Les sermons d’Arnoul de Lisieux” (PhD diss., École nationale des chartes, 2005), http://­t heses​.­enc​.­sorbonne​.­f r​/­2005​/­bettant (accessed June 9, 2022); Carolyn Poling Schriber, The Dilemma of Arnulf of Lisieux: New Ideas Versus Old Ideals (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1990). 76. John of Salisbury, Metalogicon, ed. Hall and Keats-­Rohan, 101 (c. 3, prol. 11). 77. Peter of Blois, ­Later Letters, ed. Revell, 30 (Ep. 4.93), 35 (Ep. 5.117), 61 (Ep. 10.220–25), 98 (Ep. 16.177). 78. Peter of Blois, ­Later Letters, ed. Revell, 330 (Ep. 78.24). 79. Arnulf of Lisieux, Die Gedichte Arnulfs von Lisieux (d. 1184), ed. Ewald Könsgen (Heidelberg: Carl Winter, 2002), 60 (no. 10). 80. Peter of Blois, ­Later Letters, ed. Revell, 335 (Ep. 80.1). 81. Such is the experience in Adam of Perseigne, Lettres I: I–­X V, ed. Jean Bouvet, SC 66 (Paris: Editions du Cerf, 1960), 68 (Ep. 3.17). 82. Peter of Blois, ­Later Letters, ed. Revell, 146–56 (Ep. 29). 83. Haseldine, “Understanding,” 255, on self-­referentiality. Stephen of Tournai is quite dif­ fer­ent. Ysebaert, “Letter Collections” (2005), 293. 84. Peter of Celle, Letters, ed. Haseldine, 322 (Ep. 70), 300 (Ep. 63). See also Engen, “Letters,” 97, 115. The importance of friendship in motivating Peter’s letter collection is abundantly clear in Witzleb, “Netzwerk.” I would like to thank the author for making his unpublished dissertation available to me. 85. Ann Blair, Too Much to Know: Managing Scholarly Information Before the Modern Age (New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press, 2010), 33–46; Illich, Vineyard; Fichtenau, “Monastisches.” 86. John of Salisbury, Letters 2, ed. and trans. Millor and Brooke, 34 (Ep. 144), 206 (Ep. 182). The idea of excessive knowledge as a cancer appears in Hugo Metellus, Epistolae, PL.188.1273B (Ep. 4). 87. Peter of Blois, ­Later Letters, ed. Revell, 19 (Ep. 3.2), 25 (Ep. 3.172). 88. Peter of Blois, ­Later Letters, ed. Revell, 13f. (Ep. 2.90). 89. Peter of Blois, ­Later Letters, ed. Revell, 183 (Ep. 37.114). On the use of his school notes in old age, see Richard W. Southern, “Peter of Blois: A Twelfth-­Century Humanist?,” in Richard W. Southern, Medieval Humanism and Other Studies (Oxford: Blackwell, 1970), 105–34, p. 109. 90. See the index of passages in Peter of Blois, ­Later Letters, ed. Revell, 350–62. 91. Peter of Blois, ­Later Letters, ed. Revell, 175 (Ep. 35.17). 92. Peter of Blois, ­Later Letters, ed. Revell, 159–61 (Ep. 31), 153 (Ep. 29.203), 178 (Ep. 36.16); 210 (Ep. 46.37) on adverbs.



Notes to Pages 183–185

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93. Peter of Blois, ­Later Letters, ed. Revell, 125 (Ep. 27.11). His nephew is “multum favorabilis . . . ​in scientia sacre pagine legumque et canonum.” 94. Examples at Peter of Blois, ­Later Letters, ed. Revell, Epp. 16, 29, 35–37, 39–41, 46, 50, and 53. 95. The prime example is Peter’s letter to Pope Innocent III. Peter of Blois, ­Later Letters, ed. Revell, 3–25 (Epp. 1–3), where the London archdeacon explains to the summus pontifex how the mass needs to be reformed. With a focus on the “clerical dilemma,” see Cotts, Dilemma, 245f. For a so­cio­log­i­cal distinction between “legitimate” and “incompetent” criticism, see Mario Rainer Lepsius, “Kritik als Beruf: Zur Soziologie der Intellektuellen,” in Interessen, Ideen und Institutionen, ed. Mario Rainer Lepsius (Opladen: Westdeutscher Verlag, 1990), 270–85. See also Dietz Bering, Die Intellektuellen: Geschichte eines Schimpfwortes (Stuttgart: Klett-­Cotta, 1978); Dietz Bering, ed., Die Intellektuellen im Streit der Meinungen (Berlin: Berlin University Press, 2011). For a dif­fer­ent take on the idea of the intellectual, see Borgolte, “Universität”; Michael Borgolte, “Intellektuelle und die Ordnungen der Welt: universalhistorisch betrachtet,” Merkur 70 (2016), 26–36. On Le Goff, see Chapter 1. 96. The standard assessment of his impact can be found in Ott, Untersuchungen, 48f. On Peter’s expert consultation letters, see Southern, Scholastic Humanism, 2.207–12. On Peter’s educational background, see Cotts, Dilemma, 109–21. A similar view of Arnulf of Lisieux is found in Schriber, Dilemma. 97. Peter of Blois, ­Later Letters, ed. Revell, 146 (Ep. 29.7): “michi graves et arduas proponitis questiones ut eas vobis diligenter explanem, qui nec ad momentum vacationem corporis habeo animive quietem.” See also Hugo Metellus, Epistolae, ed. Hugo, 380–82 (Ep. 37), h ­ ere 380: “Quaestionibus tuis nuper me pulsasti, pulsatus pauca respondi; negotiosus siquidem tibi respondere non potui. Malui itaque pauca de plurimis respondere, quam in multiloquio errare, et per multiloquium incurrere falsiloquium.” 98. Peter of Blois, Epistolae, PL 207.69–71 (Ep. 19). 99. Peter of Blois, ­Later Letters, ed. Revell, 186–89 (Epp. 39f.). 100. Jason Taliadoros, “Communities of Learning in Law and Theology: The ­Later Letters of Peter of Blois (1125/30–1212),” in Communities of Learning: Networks and the Shaping of Intellectual Identity in Eu­rope, 1100–1500, ed. Constant  J. Mews and John  N. Crossley (Turnhout: Brepols, 2011), 85–107. 101. Georg Wieland, “Praktische Philosophie und Politikberatung bei Thomas von Aquin,” in Po­liti­cal Thought in the Age of Scholasticism: Essays in Honor of Jürgen Miethke, ed. Martin Kaufhold (Leiden: Brill, 2004), 65–83. 102. On the following, see the works of the DFG Gradu­ate Program in Göttingen, “Expert Cultures from the Twelfth to the Eigh­teenth Centuries,” held from 2009 to 2018. Resulting publications include, among ­others Marian Füssel, Philip Knäble, and Nina Elsemann, eds., Wissen und Wirtschaft: Expertenkulturen und Märkte vom 13. bis 18. Jahrhundert (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2017); Björn Reich, Frank Rexroth, and Matthias Roick, eds., Wissen, maßgeschneidert: Experten und Expertenkulturen im Europa der Vormoderne (Munich: Oldenbourg, 2012). The main efforts of the program are summarized in Frank Rexroth, “Systemvertrauen und Expertenskepsis: Die Utopie vom maßgeschneiderten Wissen in den Kulturen des 12. bis 16. Jahrhunderts,” in Wissen, maßgeschneidert: Experten und Expertenkulturen im Europa der Vormoderne, ed. Björn Reich, Frank Rexroth, and Matthias Roick (Munich: Oldenbourg, 2012), 12– 44; Frank Rexroth, “Warum Nichtwissen unzufrieden und Spezialwissen unbeliebt macht: Vormoderne Spuren moderner Expertenkritik,” Merkur 66 (2012), 896–06; Rexroth, Expertenweisheit. 103. Peter L. Berger and Thomas Luckmann, The Social Construction of Real­ity: A Treatise in the Sociology of Knowledge (New York: Anchor, 1967), 204, n. 103. 104. James A. Brundage, “The Medieval Advocate’s Profession,” Law and History Review 6 (1988), 439–64, p.  439; Claudio Soliva, “Juristen, Christen, Listen,” in Die List, ed. Harro von

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Senger (Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, 1999), 263–80; Carlos Gilly, “Das Sprichwort ‘Die Gelehr­ ten die Verkehrten’ oder der Verrat der Intellektuellen im Zeitalter der Glaubensspaltung,” in Forme e destinazione del messaggio religioso: Aspetti della propaganda religiosa nel cinquecento, ed. Antonio Rotondò (Florence: Olschki, 1991), 229–375, p.  254; Heiko  A. Oberman, “Die Gelehrten die Verkehrten: Popu­lar Response to Learned Culture in the Re­nais­sance and Reformation,” in Religion and Culture in the Re­nais­sance and Reformation, ed. Steven Ozment (Kirksville, Mo.: Sixteenth-­Century Journal, 1989), 43–62; Roderich von Stintzing, Das Sprichwort “Juristen böse Christen” in seinen geschichtlichen Bedeutungen: Rektoratsrede (Bonn: Marcus, 1875). The second adage comes from Charles Dickens, The Old Curiosity Shop: A Tale (London: Chapman and Hall, 1841), 113 (chapter 56): “if ­t here w ­ ere no bad ­people, ­t here would be no good ­lawyers.” See also the famous portrayal of the case Jarndyce vs. Jarndyce in Bleak House (1852– 53). The final quote comes from William Shakespeare, The Second Part of King Henry VI, ed. Michael Hattaway (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1991), 175 (4.2.63).

Chapter 9 1. Evidence is gathered in AHLett. 522f. Abelard’s own statements appear on p. 8 (Ep. 1.6). 2. Adelard of Bath, Conversations, ed. and trans. Burnett, 96–99 (Questiones naturales 4): “Deo non retraho. Quicquid enim est, ab ipso et per ipsum est. Id ipsum tamen confuse et absque discretione non est. Que quantum scientia humana procedit audienda est; in quo vero universaliter deficit, ad Deum res referenda est.” See also Albert Zimmermann, “Die Theologie und die Wissenschaften,” in Die Re­nais­sance der Wissenschaften im 12. Jahrhundert, ed. Peter Weimar (Zu­rich: Artemis, 1981), 87–105. 3. This view appears in the satire In sublimi solio. Barthélémy Hauréau, Notices et extraits des manuscrits de la Bibliothèque Nationale, vol. 6 (Paris: Klincksieck, 1893), 306–9. See also Ferruolo, Origins, 114f. 4. Richard W. Southern, “The Necessity of Two Peters of Blois,” in Intellectual Life in the ­Middle Ages: Essays Presented to Margaret Gibson, ed. Lesley Janette Smith and Benedicta Ward (London: Hambledon, 1992), 103–18, p.  110f.; Eleanor Rathbone, “Roman Law in the Anglo-­ Norman Realm,” Studia Gratiana 11 (1967), 253–71; Morey and Brooke, Gilbert, 60–63. Evidence collected in Thomas Wetzstein, “Der Jurist: Bemerkungen zu den distinktiven Merkmalen eines mittelalterlichen Gelehrtenstandes,” in Beiträge zur Kulturgeschichte der Gelehrten im späten Mittelalter, ed. Frank Rexroth (Ostfildern: Thorbecke, 2010), 243–96, p. 255f, n. 19; Arnulf of Lisieux, Letters, ed. Barlow, xvf., n. 4; Schriber, Dilemma, 3; Cotts, Dilemma, 104–6. Thomas Becket’s study of Roman law is well documented by contemporaries as seen in Brundage, Origins, 88, n. 57. The letter David sent home appears in Spicilegium Liberianum, ed. Francesco Liverani (Florence: Cambiagi, 1863), 626–28, p.  628. W ­ hether Bulgarus’s student Johannes Bassianus also moved to E ­ ngland is unclear. Hermann Lange, Römisches Recht im Mittelalter, vol. 1: Die Glossatoren (Munich: C. H. Beck, 1997), 216f. 5. Brundage, Origins; Manlio Bellomo, The Common L ­ egal Past of Eu­rope, 1000–1800 (Washington, D.C.: Catholic University of Amer­i­ca Press, 1995), chapters 3 and 7; Gerhard Otte, “Die Rechtswissenschaft,” in Die Re­nais­sance der Wissenschaften im 12. Jahrhundert, ed. Peter Weimar (Zu­rich: Artemis, 1981), 123–42. 6. Arnulf of Lisieux, Invectiva in Girardum Engolismensem episcopum, ed. Julius Dieterich, MGH LdL 3 (Hanover: Hahnsche Buchhandlung, 1897), 81–108, p. 85.22: “Sed quia me in Italiam desiderata diu Romanorum legum studia deduxerunt.” Recent research has somewhat loosened the old fixation on Bologna but without significantly challenging its pioneering image. Wetzstein, “Jurist.” 7. Florian Hartmann, “Die Anfänge der Universität Bologna: Rhetoriklehre und das studium in artibus im 12. und frühen 13. Jahrhundert,” in Zwischen Konflikt und Kooperation: Praktiken der europäischen Gelehrtenkultur (12.–17. Jahrhundert), ed. Jan-­Hendryk de Boer, Marian Füssel, and Jana Madlen Schütte (Berlin: Duncker and Humblot, 2016), 25–44.



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8. Peter of Blois, Epistolae, PL 207.91f. (Ep. 26), but cited h ­ ere from a more recent edition that distinguishes between a shorter and longer version of the letter. The following passage is from the longer version in Wahlgren, Letter Collections, 77f. (chapter 4): “Lex equidem saecularis gloriosa supellectili verborum, lepidaeque orationis urbanitate lasciviens me vehementer allexerat et inebriaverat mentem meam, sed abhorret Propheta aureum calicem Babylonis, ubi designatus est lepor eloquentiae aedificans ad gehennam.” Then, however: “Res plena discriminis est in clericis usus legum. Totum enim hominem adeo sibi vindicat, ut eum rei familiaris providentia fraudet, suspendat a spiritualibus, a divinis avellat. . . . ​Periculosum est ita legibus humanis se impendere, ut mens per horulam a divinae legis meditatione ieiunet. Nemo simul potest precari et orare, petere et postulare, exercere Christi ministerium et officium advocati, ne dum in utroque festinat neutrum bene peragat.” On his flirtation with ­legal science, see p. 76: “Vester vobisque devotissimus operam theologiae Parisius indulgeo, Bononiensis castra militiae crebro suspirans, quae vehementer citius et praemature deserui.” This remarkable letter is worth examining more fully for how it uses theological and juristic language differently. Cotts, Dilemma, 100–109. The argument of religiously motivated opponents of the new science had followed t­ hese lines: Did studying secular law leave any time for praying and preaching? How did one find time to build up the church? What about God’s law? 9. Placentinus (d. 1192) taught: “Quanto magis res omnis distinguitur, tanto melius aperitur.” Cited from Meyer, “Ordnung,” 387. 10. John of Salisbury, Metalogicon, ed. Hall and Keats-­Rohan, 71 (c. 2.10.30): “Nam postea unus eorum profectus Bononiam dedidicit quod docuerat. Siquidem et reversus dedocuit.” 11. Nigel de Longchamps, Tractatus contra curiales et officiales clericos, ed. André Boutemy (Paris: Presses Universitaires de France, 1959), 158f. (c. 165): “valefacto Parisius Bononiam se transferunt, corpus juris quocumque labore adquisitum totum incorporant, transactoque tempore congruo revertuntur cum tripudio. Loquuntur enim linguis novis et sesquipedalibus verbis, docent enim homines lites facere, factas sopire, sopitas iterum suscitare.” 12. Referred to h ­ ere is Placentinus’s summa on the Institutions, which he wrote around 1165 (less than a de­cade a­ fter the Metalogicon) and which Azo cited from often: “easque [liberales] disciplinas non discere set dediscere debemus.” Placentinus might have called his introductory work an “Isagoge,” but since the name was already associated with the grammar oddballs, it was deemed not appropriate. Hermann Fitting, Juristische Schriften des früheren Mittelalters (Halle: Waisenhauses, 1876), 218f. The Lombard Liber Papiensis from the eleventh ­century is somewhat more merciful: it noted only that Roman law was more authoritative than rhe­toric. Lange, Recht, 26. 13. Lange, Recht, 19. L ­ egal historians have long dismissed the importance of dialectic for jurisprudence. Friedrich Carl von Savigny, Geschichte des römischen Rechts im Mittelalter, 2nd  ed., 7 vols. (Bad Homburg: Gentner, 1961 [orig. 1834–51]), 6.7: The “misuse of dialectical forms first occurs with Odofredus,” which places it (for Savigny) in the late thirteenth c­ entury. See the survey of research in Hermann Lange and Maximiliane Kriechbaum, Römisches Recht im Mittelalter, vol. 2: Die Kommentatoren (Munich: C. H. Beck, 2007), 271–76. 14. Gerhard Otte, “Die Aristoteleszitate in der Glosse: Beobachtungen zur philosophischen Vorbildung der Glossatoren,” ZRG RA 85 (1968), 368–93; Gerhard Otte, Dialektik und Jurisprudenz: Untersuchungen zur Methode der Glossatoren (Frankfurt am Main: Klostermann, 1971). On the debate about the influence of dialectic and the arts on jurisprudence, see Wetz­ stein, “Jurist,” 248f., n. 9; Lange and Kriechbaum, Recht, 271–76. For a bibliography of older views, see Peter Weimar, “Legistische Literatur und die Methode des Rechtsunterrichts der Glossatorenzeit,” Ius Commune 2 (1969), 43–83, p. 43f., n. 2. Since law students obviously did not literally forget their liberal arts lessons, we should ask a dif­fer­ent question. What ­really ­matters is w ­ hether dialectic became the guiding force for jurisprudence as it did for the other liberal arts and for scholastic theology. Despite the adoption of a Boethian scheme for l­egal lit­er­a­ture, the

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answer ­here is no. The jurists of the era w ­ ere not wrong to deny the influence of logic on their science. 15. This reading accords with the older views of Erich Genzmer and his pre­de­ces­sors: Erich Genzmer, “Vorbilder für die Distinctionen der Glossatoren,” in Acta Congressus Iuridici Internationalis, VII saeculo a decretalibus Gregorii IX et XIV a codico Iustiniano promulgatis, vol. 2 (Rome: Libreria Pont. Instituti utriusque Iuris, 1935), 343–58. On the juristic techniques of structuring, see Meyer, “Ordnung.” 16. Gloss “Notitia” to D.1.1.10.2, cited in Lange and Kriechbaum, Recht, 3.697. 17. Weber, Economy, 828. See also Udo Wolter, Ius canonicum in iure civili: Studien zur Rechtsquellenlektüre in der neueren Privatrechtsgeschichte (Cologne: Böhlau, 1975), 5. 18. Rexroth, “Kodifizieren”; Meyer, “Ordnung,” 313f. 19. Niklas Luhmann, Legitimation durch Verfahren, 3rd ed. (Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, 1978). 20. Christian Meier, “The Greco-­Roman Tradition,” in The Cultural Values of Eu­rope, ed. Hans Joas and Klaus Wiegandt (Liverpool: Liverpool University Press, 2008), 59–76, p. 75. 21. Corpus iuris civilis, Text und Übersetzung, vols. 2–3: Digesten, ed. Okko Behrends et al. (Heidelberg: C. F. Müller, 1995–1999), 2.xiii–­x xii; Tony Honoré, Justinian’s Digest: Character and Compilation (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010); Patrick Gilli, “Les Pandectes pisanes: Fortunes et infortunes d’un texte au Moyen Âge,” in Les élites lettrées au Moyen Âge: Modèles et circulation des savoirs en Méditerranée occidentale (XIIe–­XVe siècles), ed. Patrick Gilli (Montpellier: Presses Universitaires de la Méditerranée, 2008), 233–56; Lange, Recht, 1–15, p.  10 for the quote, p. 11 for the placitum from 1076 that mentions the use of the Digest. 22. Corpus iuris civilis 2–3, ed. Behrends et al., 2.xiv, 14f. (no. 21). 23. Peter Weimar, “Corpus iuris civilis,” LMA 3 (1986), cols. 270–76. col. 273: “The codification was part of Justinian’s ­g rand plan to restore the Roman empire to its former glory.” 24. Lange, Recht, chapter 1. Integrated into a history of learned l­egal practice rather than jurisprudence in Brundage, Origins, chapter 3. See also Wetzstein, “Jurist”; Marie Th ­ eres Fögen, “Römisches Recht und Rombilder im östlichen und westlichen Mittelalter,” in Heilig, römisch, deutsch: Das Reich im mittelalterlichen Europa, ed. Bernd Schneidmüller and Stefan Weinfurter (Dresden: Sandstein, 2006), 57–83. 25. Burchard of Ursberg, Die Chronik des Propstes Burchard von Ursberg, ed. Oswald Holder-­ Egger and Bernhard von Simson, MGH SS rer. Germ. 16 (Hanover and Leipzig: Hahnsche Buchhandlung, 1916), 15f. See also Johannes Fried, “ ‘Auf Bitten der Gräfin Mathilde’: Werner von Bologna und Irnerius,” in Europa an der Wende vom 11. zum 12. Jahrhundert: Beiträge zu Ehren von Werner Goez, ed. Klaus Herbers (Stuttgart: Steiner, 2001), 171–201. 26. Armin Wolf, Gesetzgebung in Europa 1100–1500: Zur Entstehung der Territorialstaaten (Munich: C. H. Beck, 1996); Bellomo, Common ­Legal Past. 27. This trend is a key issue in Johannes Fried, Die Entstehung des Juristenstandes im 12. Jahrhundert: Zur sozialen Stellung und politischen Bedeutung gelehrter Juristen in Bologna und Modena (Cologne: Böhlau, 1974). 28. Fried, Entstehung, chapters 1–2. 29. Fried, Entstehung, 52–57. The often-­noted contact with Barbarossa, for example, was by no means an “alliance” between Roman ­legal science and power. Fögen, “Recht.” One example of such an urban professional is the notary Albertanus of Brescia: James M. Powell, Albertanus of Brescia: The Pursuit of Happiness in the Early Thirteenth ­Century (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1992), 10 and chapter 2 on his professional world. 30. Questiones de iuris subtilitatibus, ed. Ginevra Zanetti (Florence: Nuova Italia, 1958), 24 (c. 5.9): “Reges quidem transalpini potestatem sumpsere, iuris autem legumque scientiam notam habere non poterant. Illis enim temporibus non modo studia, set et ipsi libri legitime scientie



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fere perierant. Taceo quod illi suo more legibus operam dare nollent, etiamsi in promptu haberent. Incognitum ergo ius emendare non erat eis possibile.” 31. A summary of the evidence at Fried, Entstehung, 98f. 32. Nikolai Wandruszka, “Die soziale Herkunft Bologneser Juristen (12. bis 14. Jh.): Zur Bedeutung des Adels für die Anfänge der Universität,” in Europa und seine Regionen: 2000 Jahre Rechtsgeschichte, ed. Andreas Bauer (Cologne: Böhlau, 2007), 157–86. 33. As Bulgarus wrote to Cardinal Haimeric sometime before 1148: Bulgarus, Excerpta legum, ed. Ludwig Wahrmund (Innsbruck: Wagner, 1925), 1: “eorum, quae iuris sunt archana, participem.” 34. On this idea, see Fögen, “Recht.” By not aligning itself entirely with the ruling powers, law became more impor­tant in Latin Eu­rope. It avoided alliances with the emperors (Fögen provides a helpful historical outline from Savigny to the pre­sent) and any kind of historicization that might have diluted its claims to normativity. This princi­ple of “solitude in freedom” (A. v. Humboldt) was the key to its higher authority. 35. Gerhard Dilcher, “Säkularisierung von Herrschaft durch Sakralisierung der Gerechtigkeit? Überlegungen zur Gerechtigkeitskonzeption bei Kaiser Friedrich II. und Ambrogio Lorenzetti,” in Recht, Religion, Verfassung: Festschrift für Hans-­Jürgen Becker zum 70. Geburtstag, ed. Inge Kroppenberg, Martin Löhnig, and Dieter Schwab (Bielefeld: Gieseking, 2009), 9–47, p.  10f. on “the pro­cess of differentiating religion, politics, law, and society as separate systems.” Dilcher shows how “religion” takes on in the course of this pro­cess “another function alongside but in relation to” the other systems. The same applies to law. See p. 24 on “law and justice.” 36. Ralph Niger, as cited in Hermann U. Kantorowicz, “An En­g lish Theologian’s View of Roman Law: Pepo, Irnerius, Ralph Niger,” in Hermann  U. Kantorowicz, Rechtshistorische Schriften, ed. Helmut Coing and Gerhard Immel (Karlsruhe: C. F. Müller, 1970), 231–44, p. 242: “Sed et quamquam ab initio displicerent iura principibus, quia vetustas consuetudines erasissent, tandem tamen ecclesia procurante et propagante eorum scientiam, usque ad principes producerunt eorum notitiam, et apud eos invenit eis gratiam.” 37. Lange, Recht, 96–104, recounts the legists’ initial avoidance of canon law and their gradual ac­cep­tance of it. The only glossator who is known to have authored a canonistic text did so ­because his colleagues “knew ­little or nothing of canon law” (quote at p. 97). On the relationship between the two, see Stephan Kuttner, “Papst Honorius III. und das Studium des Zivilrechts,” in Festschrift für Martin Wolff: Beiträge zum Zivilrecht und internationalen Privatrecht, ed. Ernst von Caemmerer, Walter Hallstein, and F. A. Mann (Tübingen: Mohr, 1952), 79–101; Wolter, Ius canonicum, 3–50, p. 40 for an example of the attitude ­toward Roman law’s harsh princi­ples. 38. Lit­er­a­ture is provided in the last section of Chapter 5. 39. Corpus iuris canonici, ed. Emil Friedberg, 2 vols. (Graz: Akademische Druck, 1959 [orig. 1879–81]). See also Hartmut Zapp, “Corpus iuris canonici,” LMA 3 (1986), cols. 263–69; Brundage, Origins, 96–105. That Gratian’s Decretum was not the sophisticated, trend-­setting systematization that it is sometimes made out to be, see Meyer, “Ordnung,” 341–49. 40. On this era, see Chapter 4. 41. Lange, Recht, 25f. 42. The Accursian Gloss to D.1.1.10.2 as cited in Lange, Recht, 117. It refers to Ulpian’s saying that l­egal science is “the knowledge of divine and ­human t­hings.” Corpus iuris civilis 2–3, ed. Behrends et al., 91: “veram nisi fallor philosophiam, non simulatam affectantes.” 43. On the special status of theology, see the editorial commentary in Alan of Lille, Regulae theologiae, ed. Niederberger and Pahlsmeier, 19f. For the legist Azo, such differences ­were determined according to disciplinary principia. Lange and Kriechbaum, Recht, 272, cited from Azo’s summa on the Institutions.

304

Notes to Pages 195–199

44. Martin Kintzinger, “Das Studium in Bologna und Paris: Ein Aufbruch zur Wissensgesellschaft?,” in Aufbruch in die Gotik: Der Magdeburger Dom und die späte Stauferzeit, vol. 1: Essays, ed. Mathias Puhle (Mainz: Zabern, 2009), 290–99. 45. Kenneth Pennington, “The Decretalists 1190 to 1234,” in The History of Medieval Canon Law in the Classical Period, 1140–1234: From Gratian to the Decretals of Pope Gregory IX, ed. Wilfried Hartmann and Kenneth Pennington (Washington, D.C.: Catholic University of Amer­i­ca Press, 2008), 211–45, p. 215f. on the example of Ricardus Anglicus. 46. Pennington, “Decretalists.” 47. On the “lieux de mémoire” of medieval science, see Frank Rexroth, “Die Universität,” in Die Welt des Mittelalters: Erinnerungsorte eines Jahrtausends, ed. Johannes Fried and Olaf B. Rader (Munich: C. H. Beck, 2011), 460–72; Rexroth, “Wissenschaft” (2016). Spatialization is crucial to mnemonic techniques. Assmann, Cultural Memory, 44f. 48. Weimar, “Legistische Literatur,” 45, n. 3: “Works which do not follow any of the ‘Bolognese’ types are isolated occurrences which should not be considered in a typology.” 49. Elsa Marmursztejn, L’autorité des maîtres: Scolastique, normes et société au XIIIe siècle (Paris: Les Belles Lettres, 2007). 50. Both examples come from thirteenth-­century Orléans rather than Bologna, but a distinction between common sense and l­egal considerations is typical of Roman law teaching at both. Kees Bezemer, What Jacques Saw: Thirteenth C ­ entury France Through the Eyes of Jacques de Revigny, Professor of Law at Orleans (Frankfurt am Main: Klostermann, 1997), 54f. 51. Fried, Entstehung, 110, with references; Rexroth, “Kodifizieren,” 411–14 especially. 52. This wandering back and forth is at the core of juristic subsumption. See the case of Bartolus in Susanne Lepsius, “Juristische Theoriebildung und philosophische Kategorien: Bemerkungen zur Arbeitsweise des Bartolus von Sassoferrato,” in Po­liti­cal Thought in the Age of Scholasticism: Essays in Honor of Jürgen Miethke, ed. Martin Kaufhold (Leiden: Brill, 2004), 287–304, p. 299. 53. Lange and Kriechbaum, Recht, 271–76, p. 274 for the quote from Baldus: “Scientia est infallibilis noticia veritatis.” 54. Elsa Marmursztejn, “A Normative Power in the Making: Theological Quodlibeta and the Authority of the Masters at Paris at the End of the Thirteenth ­Century,” in Theological Quodlibeta in the M ­ iddle Ages, vol. 1: The Thirteenth C ­ entury, ed. Christopher Schabel (Leiden: Brill, 2006), 345–402; Marmursztejn, L’autorité. 55. Boncompagno da Signa, rhetorician and jurist, quoted on the rhetorical textbooks of his time in Thomas Haye, Oratio: Mittelalterliche Redekunst in lateinischer Sprache (Leiden: Brill, 1999), vii: “Quare dico, quod dividere, subdividere, diffinire vel describere, dare praecepta et semper iubere nichil aliud est quam emittere tonitrua et pluviam non largiri.” See also Lange, Recht, 464f. especially, for a summary of ideas about theory and practice. 56. Corpus iuris canonici, ed. Friedberg, 1.1008 (C.25 q.1 c.6): “Sunt quidam dicentes, Romano Pontifici semper licuisse novas condere leges. Quod et nos non solum non negamus, sed etiam valde affirmamus.” On the history of ideas about positive law, see Sten Gagnér, Studien zur Ideengeschichte der Gesetzgebung (Stockholm: Almqvist and Wiksell, 1960), 180f. on Gratian. 57. Gilli, “Pandectes”; Lange, Recht, 61–63; Savigny, Geschichte, 3.447f. with notes d. and e. 58. Fried, Entstehung, 90–95, for the examples; p. 29 on carry­ing weapons. 59. John of Salisbury, Metalogicon, ed. Hall and Keats-­Rohan, 73 (c. 2.11.2): “Propositas enim de se expedit quaestiones, sed ad alia non consurgit. Quale est an affirmare sit enuntiare, et an simul extare possit contradictio. Hoc autem quid ad usum vitae conferat si non est adminiculans alii, quisque diiudicet. Ceterum an voluptas bona sit, an praeeligenda virtus, an in summo bono bonae habitudines, an sit in indigentia laborandum, purus et simplex dialecticus raro examinat.” H ­ ere and below, see Rexroth, “Einheit,” 33–44; Otto of Freising, Chronica sive historia de duabus civitatibus, ed. Adolf Hofmeister, MGH SS rer. Germ. 45 (Hanover: Hahnsche Buchhandlung, 1912), 51.11 (c. 1.16).



Notes to Pages 199–201

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60. Maurach, “Daniel,” 212, §1: “Cum dudum ab Anglia me causa studii excepissem et Parisiis aliquamdiu moram fecissem, videbam quosdam bestiales in scolis gravi auctoritate sedes occupare, habentes coram se scamna duo vel tria et desuper codices inportabiles, aureis litteris Ulpiani traditiones representantes, necnon et tenentes stilos plumbeos in manibus, cum quibus asteriscos et obelos in libris suis quadam reverentia depingebant. Qui, dum propter inscitiam suam locum statue tenerent, tamen volebant sola taciturnitate videri sapientes; sed tales, cum aliquid dicere conabantur, infantissimos reperiebam.” The reference to “Titius” and “Seius” at §3. 61. Borst, Astrolab, 89f. 62. Emmanuel Poulle, “Le traité de l’astrolabe de Raymond de Marseille,” Studi medievali serie terza 5 (1964), 866–900, p. 889f.: “Sunt enim nonnulli qui solo divitiarum appetendarum intuitu ipsam non ut ejus amore, sed . . . ​adulterino affectu amplectendo discunt. Unde etiam sequitur ut, quemadmodum pharaonis uxor que in cupiditatibus Joseph ardens illicito coitu matrimonium fedare attemptabat, eumque violenter detinens ipsum, clamide retenta, perdidit quod speravit, sic scientie hujus velamine id est sciens quomodo et quasi per violentiam sublato ab eodem fructu petito ut indignus repellitur.” 63. Richard FitzNeal (of Ely), Dialogus de Scaccario, ed. Marianne Siegrist (Zu­rich and Stuttgart: Artemis, 1963), 12: “Qui novitatibus gaudent, qui subtilium rerum fugam appetunt, habent Aristotilem et libros Platonicos, audiant illos. Tu scribe non subtilia set utilia.” 64. Pennington, “Decretalists,” 232; Brundage, “Medieval Advocate”; James A. Brundage, “The Ethics of the ­Legal Profession: Medieval Canonists and their Clients,” Jurist 33 (1973), 237– 48. One example was Aegidius de Fuscarariis, who—at the urging of his students—­w rote a practical handbook to instruct young advocates who had studied canon law but had no practical experience: “ad eruditionem novorum advocatorum militantium in iure canonico, qui licet periti in iure existant, ignorantes tamen practicam causas nesciunt ordinare.” Ludwig Wahrmund, Der Ordo iudiciarius des Aegidius de Fuscarariis (Innsbruck: Wagner, 1916), 1. 65. See Otte, “Rechtswissenschaft,” 135. Cited from Azo in Fried, Entstehung, 115. 66. Rexroth, “Habitus,” 317–20; Gadi Algazi, “Gelehrte Zerstreutheit und gelernte Vergeßlichkeit,” in Der Fehltritt: Vergehen und Versehen in der Vormoderne, ed. Peter von Moos (Cologne: Böhlau, 2001), 235–50; Gadi Algazi, “ ‘Sich selbst vergessen’ im späten Mittelalter: Denk­ figuren und soziale Konfigurationen,” in Memoria als Kultur, ed. Otto Gerhard Oexle (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1995), 387–427. 67. Javier Ochoa Sanz, Vincentius Hispanus: Canonista boloñes del siglo XIII (Rome: Consejo Superior de Investigaciones Cientificas, 1960), 49f. 68. Savigny, Geschichte, 176, n. k, 255, n. b. 69. Lange, Recht, 230: “qui ergo leges supra dictas aliter intelligit, se ipsum imperitum ostendit.” 70. Johann Friedrich von Schulte, Die Geschichte der Quellen und Literatur des canonischen Rechts, vol. 1: Von Gratian bis auf Papst Gregor IX (Graz: Akademische Druck, 1956 [orig. 1875]), 163f., n. 22: “sed hoc falsum est . . . ​nulla est ergo talis solutio, aut si est aliqua, a nullo intelligitur.” 71. Schulte, Geschichte, 165, A.25: “Quidquid male hactenus et fere ab omnibus magistris nostris dicta sunt in hoc articulo, ego tamen praecise et secure et catholice dico, quod.” 72. Schulte, Geschichte, 192, n. 15: “nec credo Alano, quia Anglicus et timidus, nec mag. Tancredo, quia Lombardus et acephalus.” 73. Fried, Entstehung; Andrea von Hülsen-­Esch, Gelehrte im Bild: Repräsentation, Darstellung und Wahrnehmung einer sozialen Gruppe im Mittelalter (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2006); Andrea von Hülsen-­E sch, “Kleider machen Leute: Zur Gruppenrepräsentation von Gelehrten im Spätmittelalter,” in Die Repräsentation der Gruppen: Texte, Bilder, Objekte, ed. Otto Gerhard Oexle and Andrea von Hülsen-­Esch (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1998), 225–57; Andrea von Hülsen-­Esch, “Gelehrte in Miniaturen spätmittelalterlicher Handschriften: Ste­reo­t ype, Differenzierungen, Deutungsschemata,” in Beiträge zur Kulturgeschichte der Gelehrten im späten Mittelalter, ed. Frank Rexroth (Ostfildern: Thorbecke, 2010), 297–320.

306

Notes to Pages 201–204

On the learned habitus at the end of the ­Middle Ages, see Ingo Trüter, Gelehrte Lebensläufe: Habitus, Identität und Wissen um 1500 (Göttingen: Universitätsverlag Göttingen, 2017). 74. AHLett. 26 (Ep. 1.16): “Tanti quippe tunc nominis eram et iuventutis et forme gratia preminebam, ut quamcunque feminarum nostro dignarer amore nullam vererer repulsam.” 75. Southern, Scholastic Humanism, 2.7. 76. Jaeger, “Mensch.” Adelard von Bath, Conversations, 38 (De eodem et diverso): “Hanc igitur quam cernis secundam hilari vultus iocunditate elateque frontis confidentia quasi aliquid dicere paratam, in cuius veste quicquid sub civilem disceptationem cadere potest intextum est, nec michi nec alii, credo, sufficienter laudare pronum est.” 77. Cicero, Gespräche in Tuskulum, ed. Karl Büchner, 2nd  ed. (Zu­rich: Artemis, 1966), 3.23.56: “Saepe est etiam sub palliolo sordido sapientia.” Alan of Lille, Textes inédits, ed. Marie Therèse d’Alverny (Paris: Vrin, 1965), 24: “Hic tumulatus est Alanus, huius libri actor, qui in vita sua composuit ipsos [sic] duos versus, et iubssit [sic] ut post mortem eius sculperentur [sic] in sepulcro suo: ‘Qui Alanus fuit strumosus et brevis stature / Sed quicquid sciri potuit per hominem, scivit ille.’ ” Francis Cairns, “The Addition to the Chronica of Richard of Poitiers and Hugo Primas of Orléans,” Mittellateinisches Jahrbuch 19 (1984), 159–61, p. 159: “His etenim diebus viguit apud Parisius quidam scolasticus, Hugo nomine, a conscolasticis Primas cognominatus, persona quidem vilis, vultu deformis. Hic a primeva etate litteris secularibus informatus propter faceciam suam et litterarum noticiam fama sui nominis per diversas provincias divulgata resplenduit.” On Aristotle and dialectica, see Münster-­Swendsen, “Virtuosity,” 47, n. 9. 78. Salimbene of Parma (di Adam), Cronica, ed. Oswald Holder-­Egger, MGH SS 32 (Hanover and Leipzig: Hahnsche Buchhandlung, 1905–13), 37.7: “Domnus Bernardus Oliverii de Adam de civitate Parmensi, famosus iudex et probus in armis”; p. 41.31: “Martin von Fano war ein dominus legum; et palatium suum erat iuxta mare”; p. 55.1: “et induebantur scarulaticis indumentis aliqui eorum, maxime autem iudices”; p. 7: Hugh was a “litteratus homo, iudex et assessor, homo magni solatii, et . . . ​semper ibat cum potestatibus, ut esset advocatus eorum”; p. 67.24: “Domina Flos-­olive . . . ​f uit pulchra domina, pinguis et carnosa. . . . ​De Tridento fuit, uxor cuiusdam notarii, ex quo habuit duas filias, pulcherrimas dominas.” 79. Marcel Bubert has shown how utility came to be a topic of discussion among the phi­los­ o­phers at the university in Paris around 1300, and how its treatment by the arts faculty led to highly original ideas. Bubert, “Philosophie,” 20.

Chapter 10 1. Schrimpf, “Philosophie” (1989); Schrimpf, “Philosophia,” (1982); Curtius, “Geschichte”; Domański, Philosophie. On qualification in the arts, see Münster-­Swendsen, “Virtuosity,” 49–51. On their breakup, see Luscombe, “Bound­a ries,” 9–15. On the following (with more detailed references), see Rexroth, “Wahr,” 94–100. 2. Thomas of Aquinas, Expositio super librum Boethii De trinitate I, ed. Peter Hoffmann and Hermann Schrödter, 2 vols. (Freiburg im Breisgau: Herder, 2006), 2.68 (qu. 5.1.3): “Ad tertium dicendum quod septem liberales artes non sufficienter dividunt philosophiam theoricam.” On the obsolescence of the liberal arts program as early as 1200, see Luscombe, “Bound­a ries,” 9–15. 3. Schrimpf, “Philosophie” (1989), 804f. on the “substantification” (Verinhaltlichung) of philosophy. 4. Al-­Fārābī, Über die Wissenschaften, xxvii. The significant attention he received in Paris is witnessed in con­temporary introductory works on philosophy. See Lafleur, Introductions; Ruedi Imbach, “Einführungen in die Philosophie aus dem XIII. Jahrhundert: Marginalien, Materialien und Hinweise im Zusammenhang mit einer Studie von Claude Lafleur,” in Ruedi Imbach, Quodlibeta: Ausgewählte Artikel, ed. Francis Chevenal, Thomas Ricklin, and Claude Pottier (Fribourg: Universitätsverlag, 1996), 63–91; Bubert, “Philosophie,” n. 143. 5. Domingo Gundisalvo, De divisione philosophiae, ed. Baur, 345f., n. 1.



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6. Domingo Gundisalvo, De divisione philosophiae, ed. Baur, 66. Within rhe­toric, three types of speech developed depending on the addressee: just (the judge), useful (the prince), and morally good (the popu­lar assembly). 7. On this early dating with comprehensive references, see Cary J. Nederman, “Aristotelianism and the Origins of ‘Po­liti­cal Science’ in the Twelfth ­Century,” Journal of the History of Ideas 52 (1991), 179–94. See also Cary J. Nederman, Medieval Aristotelianism and Its Limits: Classical Traditions in Moral and Po­liti­cal Philosophy, 12th–15th Centuries (Aldershot: Ashgate Variorum, 1997), no. 1. One also learned to distinguish ethics from moral theology: Fichtenau, Ketzer, 239. 8. Nederman, “Aristotelianism” 180, n. 4, for information on further lit­er­a­ture. 9. On the “découverte de la nature,” see Chenu, Théologie, 21–30. See pp. 309–22 on the “éveil métaphysique”; and also Speer, Natur; Andreas Speer, “Das ‘Erwachen der Metaphysik’: Anmerkungen zu einem Paradigma für das Verständnis des 12. Jahrhunderts,” in Metaphysics in the Twelfth ­Century: On the Relationship Among Philosophy, Science, and Theology, ed. Matthias Lutz-­Bachmann (Turnhout: Brepols, 2004), 17–40. 10. David E. Luscombe, “Dialectic and Rhe­toric in the Ninth and Twelfth Centuries: Continuity and Change,” in Dialektik und Rhetorik im früheren und hohen Mittelalter: Rezeption, Überlieferung und gesellschaftliche Wirkung antiker Gelehrsamkeit vornehmlich im 9. und 12. Jahrhundert, ed. Johannes Fried (Munich: Oldenbourg, 1997), 1–20; Florian Hartmann, Ars dictaminis: Briefsteller und verbale Kommunikation in den italienischen Stadtkommunen des 11. bis 13. Jahrhunderts (Ostfildern: Thorbecke, 2013). 11. Berman, Law; Walter Ullmann, Medieval Po­liti­cal Thought (Harmonds­worth: Penguin, 1975), 159. This view is now seen critically: Christoph Flüeler, “Politischer Aristotelismus im Mittelalter: Einleitung,” Vivarium 40 (2002), 1–13, p. 5 especially. Michael Wilks, The Prob­lem of Sovereignty in the ­Later ­Middle Ages: The Papal Monarchy with Augustinus Triumphus and the Publicists (Cambridge: Cambridge, University Press, 1963), 84; Curtis Wilson, William Heytesbury: Medieval Logic and the Rise of Mathematical Physics (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1956). On ­t hese ideas, see Rexroth, “Einheit,” 28–32. 12. John of Salisbury, Letters 2, ed. Millor and Brooke, 6 (Ep. 136). 13. On this era, see Chapter 3. 14. Al-­Fārābī, De scientiis secundum versionem Dominici Gundisalvi, ed. Jakob Hans Josef Schneider (Freiburg im Breisgau: Herder, 2006), 120; Domingo Gundisalvo, De divisione philosophiae, ed. Baur, 3. On enthusiasm for disciplinarity, see Domingo Gundisalvo, De divisione philosophiae, ed. Fidora and Werner, 24f. 15. Henry of Susa (Hostiensis), Summa aurea, cited from Gaines Post, “Pa­ri­sian Masters as a Corporation, 1200–1246,” Speculum 9 (1934), 421–45, p. 421, n. 3: “Porro si universitas magistrorum et scolarium consideretur, certum est quod singularium scientiarum modi et studia sunt diversa, et tamen unum corpus faciunt, et insimul coherent, et insimul coniunguntur.” On the context of this groundbreaking study, see William Courtenay’s editorial foreword in Post, Papacy, vii–­x. 16. Wiese, System, chapter  3 (third section), especially; Leopold von Wiese, “Gebilde, soziale,” Handwörterbuch der Sozialwissenschaften 4 (1965), 221–26; Jussen, “Erforschung.” 17. Evidence from Frankfurt am Main in 1288 and Cologne: Gierke, Genossenschaftsrecht, 338, n. 40. In general, see Michaud-­Quantin, Universitas; Olga Weijers, Terminologie des universités au XIIIe siècle (Rome: Edizioni dell’Ateneo, 1987), 15–45. 18. On Cologne, see Manfred Groten, Albertus Magnus und der Große Schied (Köln 1258): Aristotelische Politik im Praxistest (Münster: Aschendorff, 2011), 11. Quote from Gierke, Genossenschaftsrecht, 221. 19. Otto Gerhard Oexle, “Alteuropäische Voraussetzungen des Bildungsbürgertums: Universitäten, Gelehrte und Studierte,” in Otto Gerhard Oexle, Die Wirklichkeit und das Wissen: Mittelalterforschung, Historische Kulturwissenschaft, Geschichte und Theorie der historischen

308

Notes to Pages 206–208

Erkenntnis, ed. Andrea von Hülsen-­Esch, Bernhard Jussen, and Frank Rexroth (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2011), 636–87; Martin Kintzinger, Jana Madlen Schütte, and Frank Rexroth, “Verwaltung,” in Universitäre Gelehrtenkultur, ed. Boer, Füssel, and Schuh, 19–37. 20. Chartularium Universitatis Parisiensis, ed. Denifle and Châtelain, 1.99 (no. 42). For further (and ­earlier) evidence of its use as an external designation, see Weijers, Terminologie, 18f. 21. Chartularium Universitatis Parisiensis, ed. Denifle and Châtelain, 1.67f. (no. 8). 22. The research on this much-­d iscussed pro­cess is weighed in Nathalie Gorochov, Naissance de l’université: Les écoles de Paris d’Innocent III à Thomas d’Aquin (v. 1200–­v. 1245) (Paris: Honoré Champion, 2012), 212–18. 23. The situation that had occurred in 1201 with the legation of Cardinal Octavian of Ostia (di Poli) was remembered in 1219 during the time of Pope Honorius III, the ­g reat opponent of the universities. Chartularium Universitatis Parisiensis, ed. Denifle and Châtelain, 1.87–90 (no. 30–31). See also Gorochov, Naissance, 41–45. 24. Richard of Devizes, as cited in Michaud-­Quantin, Universitas, 226, n. 31. 25. Gerald of Wales, Opera, vol. 1: De rebus a se gestis libri III, Invectionum libellus, Symbolum electorum, ed. John  S. Brewer (London: Longman, 1861), 45f. (De rebus a se gestis 2.1); Nancy Spatz, “Evidence of Inception Ceremonies in the XIIth ­Century Schools of Paris,” History of Universities 13 (1994), 3–20. 26. Constant J. Mews, “Communautés des savoirs: Écoles et collèges à Paris au XIIIe siècle,” Revue de synthèse 129 (2008), 485–507. 27. Gorochov, Naissance, 153. The numbers that she calculated for the individual subjects are somewhat lower: about twenty to thirty theologians (p. 46); fifty artists (pp. 91–100); fifteen jurists (p. 150); five medical doctors (p. 151f.). 28. Rigord and William the Breton, Oeuvres de Rigord et de Guillaume le Breton, historiens de Philippe-­Auguste, ed. François Delaborde, 2 vols. (Paris: Librairie Renouard, 1882–85), 82f.: “In diebus illis studium literarum florebat Parisius, nec legimus tantam aliquando fuisse scholarium frequentiam Athenis vel Aegypti, vel in qualibet parte mundi, quanta locum praedictum studendi gratia incolebat. Quod non solum fiebat propter loci illius admirabilem amoenitatem, et bonorum omnium superabundantem affluentiam, sed etiam propter libertatem et specialem praerogativam defensionis quam Philippus Rex et pater ejus ante ipsum ipsis scholaribus impendebant. Cum itaque in eadem nobilissima civitate non modo de trivio et quadrivio, verum et de quaestionibus juris canonici et civilis, et de ea facultate quae de sanadis corporibus et sanitatibus conservandis scripta est, plena et perfecta inveniretur doctrina, ferventiori tamen desiderio sacra pagina et quaestiones theologicae docebantur.” Spencer E. Young, “Consilio hominum nostrorum: A Comparative Study of Royal Responses to Crisis at the University of Paris, 1200–1231,” History of Universities 22 (2007), 1–20. 29. Ferruolo, Origins, 280. 30. Roger of Howden, Chronica, ed. Stubbs, 4.120; Ferruolo, Origins, 285–87. Philip’s privilege in Chartularium Universitatis Parisiensis, ed. Denifle and Châtelain, 1.59–61 (no. 1). 31. Jacques Verger, “Les conflits ‘Town and Gown’ au Moyen Âge: Essai de typologie,” in Les universités et la ville au moyen âge: Cohabitation et tension, ed. Patrick Gilli, Jacques Verger, and Daniel Le Blévec (Leiden: Brill, 2007), 237–55, p. 238f. for a more precise sociohistorical definition of this type of conflict. On Paris, see Hannah Skoda, Medieval Vio­lence: Physical Brutality in Northern France, 1270–1330 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013), 119–58. That they ­were widespread is proven by evidence from the register of the papal penitentiary: Arnold Esch, Wahre Geschichten aus dem Mittelalter: Kleine Schicksale selbst erzählt in Schreiben an den Papst (Munich: C. H. Beck, 2010), 52–57. On the “boy’s club” quality of the universities despite the high educational attainment of ­women, see Hedwig Röckelein, “Studentinnen im Mittelalter? Diskontinuitäten europäischer Universitäten,” in Wissenschaft mit Zukunft: Die “alte” Kölner Uni-



Notes to Pages 208–212

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versität im Kontext der europäischen Universitätsgeschichte, ed. Andreas Speer and Andreas Berger (Cologne: Böhlau, 2016), 137–71. 32. Martin Kintzinger, Wissen wird Macht: Bildung im Mittelalter (Ostfildern: Thorbecke, 2003). 33. Chartularium Universitatis Parisiensis, ed. Denifle and Châtelain, 1.67f. (no. 8). The following discussion overlaps partly with a separate study of mine dedicated entirely to the situation in Paris around 1215 with much additional evidence. Rexroth, “Reformen.” 34. On the mobility of students, see Martin Kintzinger, “Gelehrte und Schüler,” in Migrationen im Mittelalter: Ein Handbuch, ed. Michael Borgolte (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2014), 279–90. 35. The complete text in Gian Domenico Mansi, ed., Sacrorum conciliorum nova et amplissima collectio, 32 vols. (Venice: Zatta, 1758–98), 22.763–66. This text is preferred over the shorter version in Chartularium Universitatis Parisiensis, ed. Denifle and Châtelain, 1.66 (no. 7). Sections that deal with the students and masters are nos. 8–10. Special rules applied to two groups of clerics: t­ hose only in lower o ­ rders (no. 1) and the students and masters. 36. Chartularium Universitatis Parisiensis, ed. Denifle and Châtelain, 1.65 (no. 5), dated to 1207: Innocent III speaks of the “copia magistrorum, qui parvulis petentibus panem frangant et esurientes animas reficiant pabulo verbi Dei: sic etiam decens est, ut ipsorum numerositas refrenetur, ne forsitan propter honerosam multitudinem, que nichil habet honesti, vel vilescat eorum officium, vel minus composite impleatur, cum Deus omnia fecerit in numero, pondere ac mensura.” 37. Chartularium Universitatis Parisiensis, ed. Denifle and Châtelain, 1.78–80 (no. 20). On the issuer Robert of Courson, see Werner Maleczek, “Innocenzo III,” Dizionario Biografico degli Italiani 62 (2004), 419–35; Stephen F. Brown, “Robert of Courçon (ca. 1150–1219),” Historical Dictionary of Medieval Philosophy and Theology (2007), 246f. On Robert’s own works, see Schönberger et al., eds., Repertorium, 3.3479f. My more detailed assessment of the statutes in Rexroth, “Reformen.” 38. Chartularium Universitatis Parisiensis, ed. Denifle and Châtelain, 1.79 (no. 20): “Nullus sit scolaris Parisius, qui certum magistrum non habeat.” On the prohibition against certain texts, see Gorochov, Naissance, chapter  2. The driving force of Aristotelianism is the central theme in Young, Scholarly Community. Some hypotheses on the Spaniard Mauritius can be found in Ghanem-­Georges Hana, “Der Mauritius Hispanus in der Studienordnung der Pariser Universität aus dem Jahre 1215,” Archiv für Kulturgeschichte 55 (1973), 352–65. 39. Heinrich Denifle, Die Entstehung der Universitäten des Mittelalters bis 1400 (Berlin: Weidmann, 1885), 100f. See also Post, “Masters”; Hastings Rashdall, The Universities of Eu­rope in the M ­ iddle Ages: New Edition, ed. Maurice Powicke and A. B. Emden, 3 vols. (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1936), 1.309. With a focus on the prohibition against certain texts, see Martin Grabmann, I divieti ecclesiastici di Aristotele sotto Innocenzo III e Gregorio IX (Rome: Ponitificia Università Gregoriana, 1941), 6–10. 40. Stephen C. Ferruolo, “The Paris Statutes of 1215 Reconsidered,” History of Universities 5 (1985), 1–14. On the royal interventions up to the conflict of 1229, see Young, “Consilio.” 41. Luca Bianchi, Censure et liberté intellectuelle à l’Université de Paris (XIIIe–­X IVe siècles) (Paris: Les Belles Lettres, 1999), 99–103. 42. Gorochov, Naissance, 316. 43. Kintzinger, Schütte, and Rexroth, “Verwaltung,” 24f.; Martin Kintzinger, “Statuten,” in Universitäre Gelehrtenkultur, ed. Boer, Füssel, and Schuh, 153–73; Peter Classen, “Zur Geschichte der akademischen Freiheit vornehmlich im Mittelalter,” HZ 232 (1981), 529–53; Peter Classen, “Libertas scolastica, Scholarenprivilegien, akademische Freiheit im Mittelalter,” in Peter Classen, Studium und Gesellschaft im Mittelalter, ed. Johannes Fried (Stuttgart: Hiersemann, 1983), 238–84; Laetitia Boehm, “Libertas scholastica und negotium scholare: Entstehung und So-

310

Notes to Pages 212–214

zialprestige des akademischen Standes im Mittelalter,” in Universität und Gelehrtenstand, 1400–1800, ed. Hellmuth Rössler and Günther Franz (Limburg and Lahn: Starke, 1970), 15–61. 44. Serge Lusignan, “Vérité garde le roy”: La construction d’une identité universitaire en France (XIIIe–­XVe siècle) (Paris: Sorbonne, 1999); Sophia Menache, “La naissance d’une nouvelle source d’autorité: l’université de Paris,” Revue historique 268 (1982), 305–27. 45. Der Oberrheinische Revolutionär: Das buchli der hundert capiteln mit xxxx statuten, ed. Klaus Lauterbach, MGH Staatsschriften 7 (Hanover: Hahnsche Buchhandlung, 2009), 368, also 557. On the text, see Dümling, Träume, 119–23. Further evidence of this kind in Rexroth, “. . . ​damit die ganze Schule,” 514–20. 46. Martin Kintzinger, “Licentia: Institutionalität akademischer Grade an der mittelalterlichen Universität,” in Examen, Titel, Promotionen: Akademisches und staatliches Qualifikationswesen vom 13. bis zum 21. Jahrhundert, ed. Rainer Christoph Schwinges (Basel: Schwabe, 2007); Weijers, “Règles”; Claude Lafleur, “Les ‘guides de l’étudiant’ de la Faculté des arts de l’Université de Paris au XIIIe siècle,” in Philosophy and Learning: Universities in the ­Middle Ages, ed. Maarten J. F. M. Hoenen, Jakob Hans Josef Schneider, and Georg Wieland (Leiden: Brill, 1995), 137–99. The logic b ­ ehind this pro­cess is explained using the example of the German universities by Ulrich Rasche, “Die deutschen Universitäten und die ständische Gesellschaft: Über institutionengeschichtliche und sozioökonomische Dimensionen von Zeugnissen, Dissertationen und Promotionen in der Frühen Neuzeit,” in Bilder, Daten, Promotionen: Studien zum Promotions­ wesen an deutschen Universitäten der frühen Neuzeit, ed. Rainer A. Müller (Stuttgart: Steiner, 2007), 150–273, p.  205f. The satirical text is Epistolae obscurorum virorum, vol. 2, ed. Aloys Bömer (Heidelberg: Weißbach, 1924), 8.7 (Ep. 1). 47. On premodern academic rec­ords from the perspective of symbolic communication, see Marian Füssel, Gelehrtenkultur als symbolische Praxis: Rang, Ritual und Konf likt an der Universität der Frühen Neuzeit (Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 2006); Marian Füssel, “Rang, Ritual und Wissen: Zur Rolle symbolischer Kommunikation für die Formierung des Gelehrtenhabitus an der spätmittelalterlichen Universität,” in Beiträge zur Kulturgeschichte der Gelehrten im späten Mittelalter, ed. Frank Rexroth (Ostfildern: Thorbecke, 2010), 219–41. 48. A listing of known texts in Lafleur and Carrier, “Enseignement.” See also Lafleur, Quatre introductions, 1f.; Claude Lafleur, Le “guide de l’étudiant” d’un maître anonyme de la faculté des arts de Paris au XIIIe siècle, 4th  ed. (Québec: Université Laval, Faculté de philosophie, 1999); Lafleur, “Les guides.” See also Imbach, “Einführungen.” 49. Bubert, “Philosophie, chapter 2.1. The evidence on Bacon, e­ tc. appears at n. 161–63. On the development of a philosophical ideal of science and study guides, see Lafleur, “Les guides,” 139. See also p.  154 for discussion of the foundation of philosophical ethics with reference to Alain De Libera. 50. Especially impor­tant is De Libera, Penser, 13, on the paradigm of deprofessionalization. 51. Rexroth, “Einheit.” 52. Weijers, Terminologie, 52–55; Denifle, Entstehung, 71–77. 53. Chartularium Universitatis Parisiensis, ed. Denifle and Châtelain, 1.440f. (no. 399), on the office of the dean, which in 1264 was said to have already existed for a long time. On the seal, see p. 503 (no. 446, 1271–72). 54. Charles Homer Haskins, “The University of Paris in the Sermons of the Thirteenth ­Century,” American Historical Review 10 (1904), 1–27, p.  20, n. 6: “Circumiit scolas et invenit monstruositatem. Monstrum in uno corpore diversarum coniunctio naturarum. Quid est ergo ex diversis nationibus universitatem facere nisi monstrum creare? . . . ​Quattuor capita huius monstri sunt quattuor facultates, logice, phisice, canonici et divini iuris.” On this phenomenon, see Albrecht Koschorke, “Ein neues Paradigma in den Kulturwissenschaften,” in Die Figur, ed. Eßlinger, 9–31, p. 12f.



Notes to Pages 214–216

311

55. Chartularium Universitatis Parisiensis, ed. Denifle and Châtelain, 1.207 (no. 176): “universitatem vestram monemus et hortamur in Domino, quatinus universi et singuli terminis antiquis scientiarum et facultatum, quos posuerunt patres nostri, contenti, penamque maledictionis contra transferentem terminus proximi sui in lege positam formidantes.” 56. Chartularium Universitatis Parisiensis, ed. Denifle and Châtelain, 1.388 (no. 338), 1.138 (no. 79), 1.206f. (no. 176). 57. Chartularium Universitatis Parisiensis, ed. Denifle and Châtelain, 1.90–93 (no. 32). See also Kuttner, “Honorius.” 58. Weijers, Terminologie, 18f. On the En­g lish altar to St. Thomas, see Constanza Cipollaro and Veronika Decker, “Shaping a Saint’s Identity: The Imagery of Thomas Becket in Medieval Italy,” in Medieval Art, Architecture and Archeology at Canterbury, ed. Alixe Bovey (Leeds: Maney, 2013), 116–38, p. 128. The contributions of notaries and of notarial practice to the development of the university is emphasized along the lines of Cencetti and Fried in Hartmann, “Anfänge.” 59. Chartularium Studii Bononiensis: Documenti per la storia dell’università di Bologna dalle origini fino al secolo XV, vol. 1 (Bologna: Istituto per la storia dell’Università di Bologna, 1909), 3 (no. 1). On Lothar of Cremona, see Lange, Recht, 240–42. He appears to have been the first Bolognese doctor to have given the commune their desired oath. On the historical context of the oath, see Fried, Entstehung, 118, 121–24. 60. Walter Steffen, Die studentische Autonomie im mittelalterlichen Bologna: Eine Untersuch­ ung über die Stellung der Studenten und ihrer Universitas gegenüber Professoren und Stadtregierung im 13. und 14. Jahrhundert (Bern: Peter Lang, 1981), 43–69. 61. Lit­er­a­ture provided in: Weijers, Terminologie, 19f. Foundational is Michael B. Hackett, “The University as a Corporate Body,” in The History of the University of Oxford, vol. 1: The Early Oxford Schools, ed. Jeremy I. Catto (Oxford: Clarendon, 1984), 37–95. See p. 48f. for lit­er­a­ture. 62. Hackett, “University,” 37f. 63. Hackett, “University,” 52. 64. Gordon Leff, Paris and Oxford Universities in the Thirteenth and ­Fourteenth Centuries: An Institutional and Intellectual History (New York: Wiley and Sons, 1968). On the office of the chancellor and its pre­de­ces­sor, the magister scholarum, see Hackett, “University,” 38–50. 65. On the dating of this development to 1225–35, see Richard W. Southern, “From Schools to University,” in The History of the University of Oxford, vol. 1: The Early Oxford Schools, ed. Jeremy I. Catto (Oxford: Clarendon, 1984), 1–36, pp. 34–36. 66. Paul Hoyningen-­Huene, “Reduktion und Emergenz,” in Wissenschaftstheorie: Ein Studienbuch, ed. Andreas Bartels and Manfred Stöckler (Paderborn: Mentis, 2007), 177–97; Rexroth, “Fehltritte,” 88–91. 67. This distinction is reflected in the terms “exodus university” and “endowed university.” Peter Classen, “Die ältesten Universitätsreformen und Universitätsgründungen des Mittelalters,” in Peter Classen, Studium und Gesellschaft im Mittelalter, ed. Johannes Fried (Stuttgart: Hiersemann, 1983), 170–96, p. 179. The following account overlaps with Frank Rexroth, “Horte der Freiheit oder der Rückständigkeit? Die europäischen Universitäten der Vormoderne,” in Tradition, Autonomie, Innovation: Göttinger Debatten zu universitären Standortbestimmungen, ed. Gerd Lüer and Horst Kern (Göttingen: Wallstein, 2013), 13–37, pp. 24–37. On the “chosen affinity” (Wahlverwandtschaft) between endowment and science, see Michael Borgolte, “Stiftung und Wissenschaft: Historische Argumente für eine Wahlverwandtschaft,” in Stiften, schenken, prägen: Zivilgesellschaftliche Wissenschaftsförderung im Wandel, ed. Jürgen Kocka and Günter Stock (Frankfurt am Main: Campus, 2011), 33–41. On the founding of Eu­ro­pean universities as a cultural practice, see Michael Borgolte, Weltgeschichte als Stiftungsgeschichte: Von 3000 v. u. Z. bis 1500 u. Z. (Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 2018), 604–12. 68. Alan B. Cobban, The Medieval En­glish Universities: Oxford and Cambridge to c. 1500 (Aldershot: Scolar, 1988), 110–15.

312

Notes to Pages 216–219

69. Rashdall, Universities, 2.10; Nancy G. Siraisi, Arts and Sciences at Padua: The Studium of Padua Before 1350 (Toronto: PIMS, 1973), 16. 70. On the contract, see Rashdall, Universities, 2.11f., 337–41. 71. Gorochov, Naissance, 405–16. 72. This practice was typical among the first German universities. Frank Rexroth, Deutsche Universitätsstiftungen von Prag bis Köln: Die Intentionen des Stifters und die Wege und Chancen ihrer Verwirklichung im spätmittelalterlichen deutschen Territorialstaat (Cologne: Böhlau, 1992). 73. Jacques Verger, “Le Moyen Âge,” in Et Toulouse pour apprendre: Sept siècles d’histoire de l’université de Toulouse 1229–1969, ed. Marielle Mouranche (Toulouse: Presses Universitaires du Midi, 2010), 21–25; Cyril Eugene Smith, The University of Toulouse in the ­Middle Ages: Its Origins and Growth to 1500 a.d. (Milwaukee, WI: Marquette University Press, 1958), 32–55. 74. Georg Kaufmann, Geschichte der deutschen Universitäten, vol. 1: Vorgeschichte (Stuttgart: Cotta, 1888), chapter 3; Erich Meuthen, Kölner Universitätsgeschichte, vol. 1: Die alte Universität (Cologne: Böhlau, 1988); Robert Gramsch, Erfurt—­Die älteste Hochschule Deutschlands: Vom Generalstudium zur Universität (Erfurt: Sutton, 2012). 75. See the overview in Jacques Verger, “Patterns,” in A History of the University in Europe, vol. 1: Universities in the Middle Ages, ed. Hilde Ridder-Symoens (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992), 35–74. 76. Alphons Lhotsky, “Die Universitäten im Spätmittelalter,” in Alphons Lhotsky, Aus dem Nachlaß: Aufsätze und Vorträge, vol. 1, ed. Hans Wagner and Heinrich Koller (Munich: Oldenbourg, 1976), 34–50, p. 46 on the endowed universities as “bad apples.” 77. Ernst Schubert, “Motive und Probleme deutscher Universitätsgründungen des 15. Jahrhunderts,” in Beiträge zu Problemen deutscher Universitätsgründungen der frühen Neuzeit, ed. Peter Baumgart and Notker Hammerstein (Nendeln: KTO, 1978), 13–74, p. 32. 78. Alan E. Bern­stein, Pierre d’Ailly and the Blanchard Affair: University and Chancellor of Paris at the Beginning of the ­Great Schism (Leiden: Brill, 1978). Quote (“beflissene Geheimräte”) from Arno Borst, Geschichte an mittelalterlichen Universitäten (Constance: University of Constance Press, 1969), 19. 79. More detailed maps and commentary in Rexroth, “Horte,” 24–37. 80. Peter Moraw, “Die Prager Universitäten des Mittelalters im europäischen Zusammenhang,” Schriften der Sudetendeutschen Akademie der Wissenschaften und Künste 20 (1999), 97– 129, p.  108f. for the thesis that two universities existed from the foundation in 1348. Recent Czech research is summarized in Robert Šimůnek and Uwe Tresp, “Einleitung,” in Wege zur Bildung: Erziehung und Wissensvermittlung in Mitteleuropa im 13.–16. Jahrhundert, ed. Robert Šimůnek and Uwe Tresp (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2016), 1–11, p. 6, n. 9. 81. Heidrun Rosenberg and Michael Viktor Schwarz, Wien 1365: Eine Universität entsteht (Vienna: Brandstätter, 2015). 82. Arno Borst, “Krise und Reform der Universitäten im frühen 14. Jahrhundert,” Mediaevalia Bohemica 3 (1970), 123–47. On the shortage of teachers in the upper faculties as a structural feature before 1378, see Peter Moraw, “Improvisation und Ausgleich: Der deutsche Professor tritt ans Licht,” in Gelehrte im Reich: Zur Sozial-­und Wirkungsgeschichte akademischer Eliten des 14. bis 16. Jahrhunderts, ed. Rainer Christoph Schwinges (Berlin: Duncker and Humblot, 1996), 309–26. 83. Frank Rexroth, “Die Weisheit und ihre 17 Häuser: Universitäten und Gelehrte im spätmittelalterlichen Reich,” in Heiliges Römisches Reich Deutscher Nation 962 bis 1806: Von Otto dem Grossen bis zum Ausgang des Mittelalters—­Essays, ed. Matthias Puhle and Claus-­Peter Hasse (Dresden: Sandstein, 2006), 424–37; Sönke Lorenz, Attempto, oder wie stiftet man eine Universität: Die Universitätsgründungen der sogenannten zweiten Gründungswelle im Vergleich (Stuttgart: Steiner, 1999). The basis of the estimate of the total number of visitors is Rainer



Notes to Pages 219–221

313

Christoph Schwinges, Deutsche Universitätsbesucher im 14. und 15. Jahrhundert: Studien zur Sozialgeschichte des Alten Reiches (Stuttgart: Steiner, 1986). 84. Heinz-­Dieter Heimann, “Wie men wol eyn statt regyrn sol”: Didaktische Literatur und berufliche Schreiben des Johann von Soest, gen. Steinwert (Soest: Mocker and Jahn, 1986), 72. For a comparable case, see Rexroth, “Horte,” 32, n. 36. 85. Bruno Boute and Tobias Daniels, “Rotuli und Suppliken,” in Universitäre Gelehrtenkultur, ed. Boer, Füssel, and Schuh, 139–52; Hermann Diener, “Die hohen Schulen, ihre Lehrer und Schüler in den Registern der päpstlichen Verwaltung des 14. und 15. Jahrhunderts,” in Schulen und Studium im sozialen Wandel des hohen und späten Mittelalters, ed. Johannes Fried (Sigmaringen: Thorbecke, 1986), 351–74; Frank Rexroth, “Privilegien,” in Universitäre Gelehrtenkultur, ed. Boer, Füssel, and Schuh, 129–38, pp. 130–32. 86. Die Chroniken der deutschen Städte, vol. 14: Die Chroniken der niederrheinischen Städte, Köln, vol. 3 (Leipzig: Hirzel, 1877), 1.289: “Want alle zit van minen jongen dagen bis nu zer zit hain ich hoeren sagen: In Paris in Frankrich is die hoichste ind beste schoil in den 7 vrien kunsten ind naturlichen kunsten. Zo Collen in Duitschlant is die hoechste ind beste schoil in der hilligen gotlicher schrift. Zo Bononien in Lombardien is die hoechste ind beste schoil in geistlichen ind werentlichen rechten. Zo Pavi in Italien die hoechste ind beste schoil in der medicinen und in der artzedi. Zo Cracaw in Polant die hoechste ind beste schoil in der astronomie, dat is die kunst van dem gestirntz.” On this position, see Maarten J. F. M. Hoenen, “Nominalism in Cologne: The Student Notebook of the Dominican Servatius Fanckel, with an Edition of a Disputatio vacantialis held on July 14, 1480; Utrum in Deo uno simplicissimo sit trium personarum realis distinctio,” in Crossing Bound­aries at Medieval Universities, ed. Spencer E. Young (Leiden: Brill, 2011), 85–144, p. 124. 87. Alain Balsan, “Valence et Grenoble, une longue rivalité,” in Les Échanges entre les Universités européenes à la Re­nais­sance, ed. Michel Bideaux and Marie-­Madeleine Fragonard (Geneva: Librairie Droz, 2003), 331–35, p. 331 on the “guerre fratricide.” 88. Verger, “Moyen Âge,” 25, n. 1. 89. Balsan, “Valence,” 333. On the competitive situation in southeastern France at the beginning of the early modern era, see Marc Venard, “Concurrentes ou complémentaires? Les universités du sud-­est de la France,” in Les Échanges entre les Universités européenes à la Re­nais­ sance, ed. Michel Bideaux and Marie-­Madeleine Fragonard (Geneva: Librairie Droz, 2003), 337– 48. Medical doctors faced competition both from non-­university medical professionals and from the other university disciplines. Jana Madlen Schütte, Medizin im Konflikt: Fakultäten, Märkte und Experten in deutschen Universitätsstädten des 14. bis 16. Jahrhunderts (Leiden: Brill, 2017). 90. Chartularium Universitatis Parisiensis, ed. Denifle and Châtelain, 1.129–31 (no. 72), ­here 131: “Quid deerit vobis igitur? Libertas scolastica? Nequaquam, quia nullius habenis dediti propria gaudebitis libertate. An timetis malitiam populi sevientis vel tyrannidem principis injuriosi? Ne timeatis, quia comitis Tholosani liberalitas nobis sufficientem fecit securitatem et de salario nostro et de servientibus nostris Tholosam venientibus et redeuntibus.” En­g lish translation from Lynn Thorndike, University Rec­ords and Life in the ­Middle Ages, 2nd  ed. (New York: Columbia University Press) 1949, 34f. 91. Chartularium Universitatis Parisiensis, ed. Denifle and Châtelain, 2.13–17 (no. 543). The main point at p. 14. 92. Lange and Kriechbaum, Recht, 26, 227–29. 93. Frank Rexroth, “Finis scientie nostre est regere: Normenkonflikte zwischen Juristen und Nichtjuristen an den spätmittelalterlichen Universitäten Köln und Basel,” Zeitschrift für Historische Forschung 21 (1994), 315–44. The same idea was considered in Erfurt in 1392. 94. Rexroth, “Finis,” 330–44; Michael Borgolte, “Die Rolle des Stifters bei der Gründung mittelalterlicher Universitäten, erörtert am Beispiel Freiburgs und Basels,” in Michael Borgolte, Stiftung und Memoria, ed. Tillmann Lohse (Berlin: Akademie, 2012), 171–201.

314

Notes to Pages 221–227

95. Such was the case in Heidelberg from the very beginning as the professors debated ­ hether the Paris constitution be followed strictly or loosely. Rexroth, Deutsche Universitätsstifw tungen, 207–18. 96. Hoenen, “Nominalism.” 97. William J. Courtenay and Karl Ubl, Gelehrte Gutachten und königliche Politik im Temp­ lerprozeß (Hanover: Hahnsche Buchhandlung, 2010); Massimo Vallerani, “The Generation of the Moderni at Work: Jurists Between School and Politics in Medieval Bologna (1270–1305),” in Europa und seine Regionen: 2000 Jahre Rechtsgeschichte, ed. Andreas Bauer (Cologne: Böhlau, 2007), 139–56; Mario Ascheri, “I consilia dei giuristi: una fonte per il tardo Medioevo,” Bullettino dell’Istituto Storico Italiano per il Medio Evo 105 (2003), 305–34.

Epilogue 1. Le Goff, Intellectuals, 5. 2. For example, Flasch, Denken, 194. 3. Kaldewey, Wahrheit, chapter 1. Bacon’s quote on p. 22.

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—­—­—. Theologia Scholarium. Ed. Matthias Perkams, HBPM 24. Freiburg im Breisgau: Herder, 2010. Abelard and Heloise. The Letter Collection of Peter Abelard and Heloise. Ed. David Luscombe and Betty Radice. Oxford: Clarendon, 2013. Accessus ad auctores: Bernard d’Utrecht, Conrad d’Hirsau; Dialogus super auctores. Ed. Robert B. C. Huygens. Leiden: Brill, 1970. Adam of Perseigne. Lettres I: I–­XV. Ed. Jean Bouvet, SC 66. Paris: Editions du Cerf, 1960. Adelard of Bath. Conversations with His Nephew: On the Same and the Dif­fer­ent; Questions on Natu­ral Science; On Birds. Ed. and trans. Charles S. F. Burnett, Cambridge Medieval Classics 9. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998. Adémar de Chabannes. Chronicon. Ed. Pascale Bourgain, CCCM 129. Turnhout: Brepols, 1999. —­—­—. Epistola de apostolatu sancti Martialis. PL 141.87–112. Aelred of Rievaulx. Opera omnia, vol. 1: Opera ascetica. Ed. Anselm Hoste and Charles H. Talbot, CCCM 1. Turnhout: Brepols, 1971. Alan of Lille. De fide catholica contra haereticos sui temporis, praesertim Albigenses. PL 210.305–430. —­—­—. Regulae theologiae. Ed. Andreas Niederberger and Miriam Pahlsmeier, HBPM 20. Freiburg im Breisgau: Herder, 2009. —­—­—. Textes inédits. Ed. Marie Therèse d’Alverny, Etudes de philosophie médiévale 52. Paris: Vrin, 1965. Al-­Fārābī. De scientiis secundum versionem Dominici Gundisalvi. Ed. Jakob Hans Josef Schneider, HBPM 9. Freiburg im Breisgau: Herder, 2006. —­—­—. Über die Wissenschaften—­De scientiis: Nach der lateinischen Übersetzung Gerhards von Cremona. Ed. Franz Schupp, Philosophische Bibliothek 568. Hamburg: Meiner, 2005. Alpert of Metz. De diversitate temporum et fragmentum de Deoderico primo episcopo Mettensi. Ed. Hans van Rij and Anna Sapir Abulafia. Amsterdam: Verloren, 1980. Analecta Dublinensia: Three Medieval Latin Texts in the Library of the Trinity College Dublin. Ed. Marvin Colker. Cambridge, Mass.: Medieval Acad­emy of Amer­i­ca, 1975. Anselm of Canterbury. Opera omnia. Ed. Franz Salesius Schmitt, 6 parts in 2 vols. Edinburgh: Thomas Nelson, 1938–61. Anselm of Havelberg. Anticimenon (Über die eine Kirche von Abel bis zum letzten Erwählten und von Ost bis West). Trans. Hermann Josef Sieben, Archa verbi, Subsidia 7. Münster: Aschendorff, 2010. —­—­—. Dialogi. PL 188.1139–248. Anselm of Liège. Gesta episcoporum Leodiensium. Ed. Rudolf Koepke, MGH SS 7.190–234. Hanover: Hahnsche Buchhandlung, 1846. Aristotle. Philosophische Schriften. Trans. Eugen Rolfes et al., 6 vols. Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1995. Arnulf of Lisieux. Die Gedichte Arnulfs von Lisieux (d. 1184). Ed. Ewald Könsgen. Heidelberg: Carl Winter, 2002. —­—­—. Invectiva in Girardum Engolismensem episcopum. Ed. Julius Dieterich, MGH LdL 3.81–108. Hanover: Hahnsche Buchhandlung, 1897. —­—­—. The Letters of Arnulf of Lisieux. Ed. Frank Barlow, Camden Third Series 61. London: Royal Historical Society, 1939. Augustine. Confessionum libri XIII. Ed. Lucas Verheijen, CCSL 27. Turnhout: Brepols, 1981 (=Confessiones).



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—­—­—. Contra academicos, De beata vita, De ordine, De magistro, De libero arbitrio. Ed. William M. Green and K.-­D. Daur, CCSL 29. Turnhout: Brepols, 1970. —­—­—. De doctrina christiana, De vera religione. Ed. Joseph Martin and K.-­D. Daur, CCSL 32. Turnhout: Brepols, 1962. —­—­—. Quaestiones evangeliorum cum appendice Quaestionum XVI in Matthaeum. Ed. Almut Mutzenbecher, CCSL 44B. Turnhout: Brepols, 1980. —­—­—. Retractationum libri II. Ed. Almut Mutzenbecher, CCSL 57. Turnhout: Brepols, 1984. Aulus Gellius. Noctes Atticae. Ed. John C. Rolfe, 3 vols. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1946. Baudri of Bourgueil. “Historia magistri Roberti.” In Les deux vies de Robert d’Arbrissel, fondateur de Fontevraud Légendes, écrits et témoignages. Ed. Jacques Dalarun, 13–187. Turnhout: Brepols, 2006. [Benedict.] Rule of St. Benedict. Ed. Ulrich Faust. Stuttgart: Reclam, 2009. Berengar of Tours. Rescriptum contra Lanfrancum. Ed. Robert B. C. Huygens, CCCM 84. Turnhout: Brepols, 1988. Bernard of Chartres. Glossae super Platonem. Ed. Paul  E. Dutton, Studies and Texts 107. Toronto: PIMS, 1991. Bernard of Clairvaux. Epistolae. PL 182.67–716. —­—­—. Sämtliche Werke: Lateinisch/Deutsch. Ed. Gerhard  B. Winkler, 10 vols. Innsbruck: Tyrolia, 1990–99. Berthold of Reichenau und Bernold of Constance. Die Chroniken Bertholds von Reichenau und Bernolds von Konstanz 1054–1100. Ed. Ian Stuart Robinson, FStGA 14. Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 2002. Boethius. Commentarii in librum Aristotelis Peri hermeneias. Ed. Karl Meiser. Leipzig: Teubner, 1877. —­—­—. De differentiis topicis. PL 64.1173–216. —­—­—. In Isagogen Porphyrii commenta. Ed. Samuel Brandt, CSEL 48. Vienna: Tempsky, 1906. —­—­—. Philosophiae consolatio. Ed. Ludwig Bieler, CCSL 94. Turnhout: Brepols, 1984. Bonaventure. Itinerarium mentis in Deum. Ed. Marianne Schlosser, Theologie der Spiritualität 3. Münster: Litverlag, 2004. [Bonifatius und Lullus.] Die Briefe des heiligen Bonifatius und Lullus. Ed. Michael Tangl, MGH Epp. sel. 1. Berlin: Weidmann, 1916. Bulgarus. Excerpta legum. Ed. Ludwig Wahrmund, Quellen zur Geschichte des römisch-­ kanonischen Prozesses im Mittelalter 4.1. Innsbruck: Wagner, 1925. Burchard of Ursberg. Die Chronik des Propstes Burchard von Ursberg. Ed. Oswald Holder-­Egger and Bernhard von Simson, MGH SS rer. Germ. 16. Hanover and Leipzig: Hahnsche Buchhandlung, 1916. Caesarius of Arles. Opera omnia, vol. 2. Ed. Germain Morin, Bruges: Maretioli, 1942. Cartulaire général de Paris, vol. 1. Ed. Robert de Lasteyrie. Paris: Imprimerie Nationale, 1887. Cartulaire de Notre-­Dame de Chartres, vol. 1. Ed. Eugène de Lépinois and Lucien Merlet, Société archéologique d’Eure-­et-­Loir 1. Chartres: Garnier, 1865. Cassiodorus. Institutiones. Ed. R. A. B. Mynors, 2nd ed. Oxford: Clarendon, 1961. Chartularium Studii Bononiensis: Documenti per la storia dell’università di Bologna dalle origini fino al secolo XV, vol. 1. Bologna: Istituto per la storia dell’Università di Bologna, 1909. Chartularium Universitatis Parisiensis. Ed. Heinrich Denifle and Émile Châtelain, 4 vols. Paris: Delalain, 1889–97.

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Chronicon Beccensis Abbatiae. PL 150.639–90. Chronicon Sancti Andreae Castri Cameracesii. Ed. Ludwig Bethmann, MGH SS 7.526–50. Hanover: Hahnsche Buchhandlung, 1846. Chronicon Sancti Huberti Andaginensis. Ed. Ludwig Bethmann and Wilhelm Wattenbach, MGH SS 8.565–630. Hanover: Hahnsche Buchhandlung, 1848. Cicero. De officiis. Ed. Heinz Gunermann. Stuttgart: Reclam, 1976. —­—­—. Gespräche in Tuskulum. Ed. Karl Büchner, 2nd ed. Zu­rich: Artemis, 1966. Clarembald of Arras. The Boethian Commentaries. Trans. David B. George and John R. Fortin, Notre Dame Texts in Medieval Culture, vol. 7. Notre Dame, Ind.: University of Notre Dame Press, 2002. Codex Udalrici. Ed. Klaus Naß, 2 vols., MGH BdK 10.1–2. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 2017. Corpus Consuetudinum Monasticarum, vol. 7.3: Consuetudinum Saeculi X/XI/XII, Monumenta Non-­Cluniacensia. Ed. Kassius Hallinger. Siegeburg: F. Schmitt, 1984. Corpus documentorum inquisitionis haereticae pravitatis Neerlandicae, vol. 1. Ed. Paul Frédéricq. Ghent: Vuylsteke, 1889. Corpus iuris canonici. Ed. Emil Friedberg, 2 vols. Graz: Akademische Druck, 1959 [orig. 1879–81]. Corpus iuris civilis, Text und Übersetzung, vol. 1: Institutionen. Ed. Okko Behrends et al. Heidelberg: C. F. Müller, 1997. Corpus iuris civilis, Text und Übersetzung, vols. 2–3: Digesten. Ed. Okko Behrends et al. Heidelberg: C. F. Müller, 1995–99. Das Register Gregors VII. Ed. Erich Caspar, 2 vols., MGH Epp. sel. 2. Berlin: Weidmann, 1920. Das St. Trudperter Hohelied: Eine Lehre der liebenden Gotteserkenntnis. Ed. Friedrich Ohly and Nicola Kleine, Bibliothek des Mittelalters 2. Frankfurt am Main: Deutscher Klassiker Verlag, 1998. Der Oberrheinische Revolutionär: Das buchli der hundert capiteln mit xxxx statuten. Ed. Klaus Lauterbach, MGH Staatsschriften 7. Hanover: Hahnsche Buchhandlung, 2009. Dickens, Charles. The Old Curiosity Shop: A Tale. London: Chapman and Hall, 1841. Die ältere Wormser Briefsammlung. Ed. Walther Bulst, MGH Briefe d. dt. Kaiserzeit 3. Weimar: Böhlau, 1949. Die Chroniken der deutschen Städte, vol. 14: Die Chroniken der niederrheinischen Städte, Köln, vol. 3. Leipzig: Hirzel, 1877. Die Geschichte vom Leben des Johannes, Abt des Klosters Gorze. Ed. Peter Christian Jacobsen, MGH SS rer. Germ. 81. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 2016. Die Tegernseer Briefsammlung des 12. Jahrhunderts. Ed. Helmut Plechl and Werner Bergmann, MGH BdK 8. Hanover: Hahnsche Buchhandlung, 2002. Die Tegernseer Briefsammlung (Froumund). Ed. Karl Strecker, MGH Epp. sel. 3. Berlin: Weidmann, 1925. Die Urkunden Friedrichs I: 1158–1167. Ed. Heinrich Appelt, Rainer Maria Herkenrath, and Walter Koch, MGH DD 10.2. Hanover: Hahnsche Buchhandlung, 1979. Domingo Gundisalvo. De divisione philosophiae. Ed. Ludwig Baur, Beiträge zur Geschichte der Philosophie und Theologie des Mittelalters 4.2–3. Münster: Aschendorff, 1903. Domingo Gundisalvo. De divisione philosophiae: Über die Einteilung der Philosophie. Ed. and trans. Alexander Fidora and Dorothée Werner, HBPM 11. Freiburg im Breisgau: Herder, 2007. Eadmer. The Life of St Anselm, Archbishop of Canterbury. Ed. Richard W. Southern. Oxford: Clarendon, 1972.



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Einhard. Vita Karoli magni. Ed. Georg Heinrich Pertz and Georg Waitz, MGH SS rer. Germ. 25. Hanover: Hahnsche Buchhandlung, 1911. Ekkehard IV. St. Galler Klostergeschichten (Casus sancti Galli). Ed. Hans F. Haefele and Ernst Tremp, MGH SS rer. Germ. 82. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 2020. Epistolae obscurorum virorum, vol. 2. Ed. Aloys Bömer. Heidelberg: Weißbach, 1924. Epitaphia Abaelardi. PL 178.103–6. Formulae Merowingici et Karolini Aevi. Ed. Karl Zeumer, MGH Formulae. Hanover: Hahnsche Buchhandlung, 1886. Fulbert of Chartres. Letters. Ed. Frederick Behrends. Oxford: Clarendon, 1976. Garland the Computist. Dialectica. Ed. Lambert Marie de Rijk. Assen: Van Gorcum, 1959. Gaufridus Grossus. Vita beati Bernardi fundatoris congregationis de Tironio in Gallia. PL 172.1363–446. Geoffrey of Auxerre. Fragmenta ex tertia vita sancti Bernardi. PL 185.523–30. Gerald of Wales. Opera, vol. 1: De rebus a se gestis libri III, Invectionum libellus, Symbolum electorum. Ed. John S. Brewer, Rerum Britannicarum mediaevi scriptores 21.1. London: Longman, 1861. —­—­—. Opera, vol. 2: Gemma ecclesiastica. Ed. John S. Brewer, Rerum Britannicarum mediaevi scriptores 21.1. London: Longman, 1862. Gerhoh of Reichersberg. Epistolae. PL 193.489–618. —­—­—. Letter to Pope Hadrian About the Novelties of the Day. Ed. Nikolaus M. Häring, Studies and Texts 24. Toronto: PIMS, 1974. —­—­—. Libelli selecti. Ed. Ernst Sackur, MGH LdL 3.131–525. Hanover: Hahnsche Buchhandlung, 1897. Gian Domenico Mansi, ed. Sacrorum conciliorum nova et amplissima collectio, 32 vols. Venice: Zatta, 1758–98. Gilbert Crispin. The Works of Gilbert Crispin. Ed. Anna Sapir Abulafia and Gillian Rosemary Evans, Auctores Britannici Medii Aevi 8. London: Oxford University Press, 1986. Gilbert Foliot. The Letters and Charters of Gilbert Foliot. Ed. Adrian Morey and Christopher N. L. Brooke. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1967. Gilbert of Poitiers. The Commentaries on Boethius. Ed. Nikolaus M. Häring, Studies and Texts 13. Toronto: PIMS, 1966. Godfrey of St. Victor. Microcosmus. Ed. Philippe Delhaye, Mémoires et travaux publiés par les professeurs des Facultés catholiques de Lille 56. Lille: Duculot, 1951. Godfrey of St. Victor. Notitia et fragmenta. PL 196.1417–22. Goswin of Mainz. Apologiae duae: Gozechini epistola ad Walcherum, Burchardi, ut videtur, abbatis Bellevallis apologia de barbis. Ed. Robert B. C. Huygens and Giles Constable, CCCM 62. Turnhout: Brepols, 1985. Gregory the G ­ reat. Dialogi. Ed. Umberto Moricca, Fonti per la Storia d’Italia 57. Rome: Tip. del Senato, 1924. Guibert of Nogent. Autobiographie. Ed. Edmond-­René Labande. Paris: Les Belles Lettres, 1981. —­—­—. A Monk’s Confession: The Memoirs of Guibert of Nogent. Trans. Paul J. Archambault. University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press, 1996. Guitmund of Aversa. De corporis et sanguinis Christi veritate in eucharistia libri tres. PL 149.1427–94. Gunzo and Anselm of Besate. Epistola ad Augienses, Rhetorimachia. Ed. Karl Manitius, MGH QQ zur Geistesgesch. 2. Weimar: Böhlau, 1958.

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Hélinand of Froidmont. Sermones. PL 212.481–720. Helmold of Bosau. Slawenchronik. Ed. Heinz Stoob, FStGA 19. Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1963. Herman of Scheda. Hermannus quondam Judaeus: Opusculum de conversione sua. Ed. Gerlinde Niemeyer, MGH QQ zur Geistesgesch. 4. Weimar: Böhlau, 1963. Herman of Tournai. Liber de restauratione monasterii sancti Martini Tornacensis. Ed. Georg Waitz, MGH SS 14, 274–327. Hanover: Hahnsche Buchhandlung, 1883. Herodotus. Histories. Ed. Josef Feix, 2 vols. Zürich: Artemisverlag, 1995. Hildebert of Lavardin. Epistolae. PL 171.141–312. Hildemar of Corbie. Expositio regulae [Benedicti]. Ed. Rupert Mittermüller. Regensburg: Pustet, 1880. Horace. Satires, Epistles, and Ars Poetica. Ed. H. Rushton Fairclough. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1926. Hugo Metellus. Epistolae. In Sacrae antiquitatis monumenta historica, dogmatica, diplomatica, vol. 2. Ed. Charles Louis Hugo, 312–412. St.-­Dié: Heller, 1731. —­—­—. Epistolae. PL.188.1269–76. Hugh of St. Victor. De sapientia animae Christi. PL 176.845–56. —­—­—. Didascalicon de studio legendi. Ed. Thilo Offergeld, Fontes Christiani 27. Freiburg im Breisgau: Herder, 1997. Innocent II. Epistolae et privilegia. PL 179.53–674. Isaac of Stella. Sermones—­Predigten III, Im Anhang: De anima, De officio missae. Ed. Wolfgang Gottfried Buchmüller and Bernhard Kohout-­Berghammer, 3 vols., Fontes Christiani 52.1–3. Freiburg im Breisgau: Herder, 2012–13. —­—­—. Sermons on the Christian Year, vol. 2: Sermons 27–­55 and Fragments 1–­3. Trans. Lewis White. Collegeville, Minn.: Liturgical Press, 2019. Isidore of Seville. Etymologiarum sive originum libri 20. Ed. Wallace Martin Lindsay, 2 vols. Oxford: Clarendon, 1911. Ivo of Chartres. Correspondance, vol. 1. Ed. Jean Leclercq, Les classiques de l’histoire de France au Moyen Âge 22. Paris: Les Belles Lettres, 1949. —­—­—. Epistolae. PL 162.9–288. Jacques de Vitry. Die Exempla aus den Sermones feriales et communes. Ed. Joseph Greven. Heidelberg: Winter, 1914. —­—­—. Historia Occidentalis. Ed. John Frederick Hinnebusch, Spicilegium Friburgense 17. Fribourg: University Press, 1972. Jerome. Adversus Vigilantium. Ed. Jean-­L ouis Feiertag, Opera 3.5. CCSL 79C. Turnhout: Brepols, 2005. —­—­—. In Hieremiam libri VI. Ed. Siegfried Reiter, Opera 1.3, CCSL 74. Turnhout: Brepols, 1960. John of Hauville. Architrenius. Ed. Paul Gerhard Schmidt. Munich: Fink, 1974. John of Salisbury. Entheticus maior and minor. Ed. Jan van Laarhoven, 3 vols., Studien und Texte zur Geistesgeschichte des Mittelalters 17. Leiden: Brill, 1987. —­—­—. Historia pontificalis. Ed. Marjorie Chibnall. Oxford: Clarendon, 2002. —­—­—. Letters, vol. 1: The Early Letters (1153–1161). Ed. and trans. W. J. Millor et al. London: Thomas Nelson, 1955. —­—­—. Letters, vol. 2: The L ­ ater Letters (1163–1180). Ed. and trans. W. J. Millor and Christopher N. L. Brooke. Oxford: Clarendon, 1979.



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INDEX

Abelard, Peter, 12–13, 29, 73–74, 79, 85–91, 94–148, 157, 165–70, 177, 186, 192, 200–201, 224 Aberdeen, 219, 222 Accursius, 189–90, 195, 221 Adalbert of Mainz (Saarbrücken), 155 Adam of Petit-­Pont (or Balsham), 110, 143 Adelard of Bath, 160, 176, 186 Adémar de Chabannes, 26 Ado, vicedominus of Laon, 62 Adrian IV, Pope, 158 Aelred of Rievaulx, 39–40 Al-­Fārābī, Abū Nasr Muhammad, 86, 142, 163, 203 Al-­K indī, Abū Ya’qūb, 163 Alan of Lille, 86, 195, 201 Alberic de Monte, 85, 110, 154 Alberic of Paris, 79 Alberic of Reims, 122, 143, 176, 189 Albert of Saxony, 5 Albertus Magnus, 13, 176 Alcuin of York, 26, 175 Alexander II, Pope, 24 Alexander III, Pope, 24, 158, 194 Alpert of Metz, 58 Amalric of Bena, 210 Ambrose of Milan, 22, 40, 88, 175 Amiens, 63 Anacletus II. See Petrus Pierleoni Angers, 216, 218 Anselm of Besate, 45, 47–49 Anselm of Canterbury (and Bec), 79, 84, 88, 105–6, 175 Anselm of Havelberg, 158 Anselm of Laon, 29, 73, 79, 88, 90–91, 97–98, 104, 108–9, 112, 121–22, 131, 171, 176–77, 187 Apostles, 54, 99, 114, 121, 124, 126 Arab world, 9, 142, 160–63, 203–4

Archpoet, 153 Ardusson River hermit settlement, 99, 117, 119, 123–25, 145, 224 Arezzo, 61, 217 Argenteuil Abbey, 99–100 Aristotle, 80–86, 89, 92, 153, 166, 173, 189–90, 199, 201, 203 Arithmetic, 2, 11, 20–21, 95 Arnold of Brescia, 134 Arnulf of Laon, 77, 79, 84 Arnulf of Lisieux, 175, 178–80, 187–88 Artes liberals. See Liberal arts Astrolabe, son of Heloise and Abelard, 98, 101, 110 Astronomy, 4, 219 Augustine, 30–31, 37, 40, 51, 60, 88, 113, 131, 146, 175, 213 Avicenna, 162 Bacon, Francis, 3, 227 Bacon, Roger, 213 Baldus de Ubaldis, 197 Bamberg, 48, 72, 77, 84, 154 Bartolus de Saxoferrato, 197 Basel, 217, 220–21 Becket. See Thomas Becket Bede, the Venerable, 26, 88 Benedict of Chiusa, 46 Benedict of Nursia, 14, 31 Benno II of Osnabrück, 35 Berengar, ­father of Abelard, 98, 117 Berengar of Tours, 50, 55, 78, 88, 97, 106, 175 Bernard of Chartres, 110, 142, 144, 176, 187 Bernard of Clairvaux, 31, 96, 100, 131–38, 155–57, 171, 174–75, 225 Bernard of Tiron, 66–67 Bernard of Utrecht, 87 Bernold of St. Blasien, 57, 60

366 Index Bernward of Hildesheim, 35 Bible, 18–22, 55–57, 109, 111–14, 124 Biography, 31–33, 97, 104, 128, 137 Bishops, 24, 47, 59–63, 136, 154, 158, 180 Blund, John, 162 Boethius, Anicius Manlius Severinus, 80–82, 85–90, 142–43, 173, 190, 224 Bologna, 16, 112, 155, 187–89, 195–200, 206, 209, 215–22 Bonaventure, 131 Borst, Arno, 131 Brittany, 94, 98–100 Bruno I, archbishop of Cologne, 30, 35 Bruno of Reims, 77–78, 153 Bulgarus, 187 Burchard of Ursberg, 192 Burckhardt, Jacob, 4–6 Burgundio of Pisa, 159 Buridan. See John Buridan Butterfield, Herbert, 2, 4, 17 Caesarius of Arles, 19, 31 Cambrai, 61–63, 67 Cambridge, 216, 218 Canon law, 187–202, 207, 221 Carolingian era, 19, 23, 33–35, 175 Cassian, John, 40 Cathedral schools, 22–42, 53, 71–75, 79, 98, 154 Chalon-­sur-­Saône, 100 Châlons, 73 Champagne, 99 Charlemagne, 26 Charles IV, Emperor, 218 Chartres, 24, 79, 135, 150, 175 ­Children, 25–36, 137, 165, 171 Chivalry, 94–96, 103, 117–18 Chrétien de Troyes, 156 Christ, Jesus, 126–27, 140 Church ­Fathers, 12, 40, 80, 88, 111–13, 121, 126, 137, 175 Cicero, Marcus Tullius, 19, 40, 80, 95, 112, 123, 140–42, 175, 181, 201 Cistercians, 111, 132–33, 135–36, 168 Cîteaux Abbey, 31 Cities, 8, 45–47, 58, 124, 127, 145–53, 188, 192–93, 206, 225 Clarembald of Arras, 143–44, 176 Cluny Abbey, 61, 100 Cologne, 154, 158, 165, 206, 217–19, 221

Conrad III, King, 158–59 Constantine I, Emperor, 18 Constantinople, 191 Copenhagen, 219 Corbeil, 72, 98, 120 Corporations, 16, 58, 206, 212 Crusades, 148, 180 Curtius, Ernst Robert, 20, 22 Daniel of Morley, 142, 161, 199 Dante Alighieri, 8 David of Dinant, 210 Departments (education), 16–17, 213–18, 221 Dialectic. See Logic Dialectica (Abelard), 101, 107, 123 Diogenes, 75–76, 187 Dionysius the Areopagite, 99 Discipline (correction, focus), 15, 27, 55, 70, 100, 157, 167–72, 207 Disputation, 13, 45, 48, 55, 89, 91–93, 120–21, 129, 132, 134, 139, 143, 166, 170, 177 Domingo Gundisalvo, 86, 142, 161–62, 176, 198, 203–5 Drogo of Parma, 48 Duhem, Pierre, 4–5, 10 Eckhart of Hochheim. See Meister Eckhart Egilbert of Bamberg, 72 Einstein, Albert, 158 Ekkehard IV of St. Gall, 27, 36 Ely, 216 Embrun, 59 ­England, 25, 58, 75, 149–50, 158–59, 184, 187, 199, 215–17 Enlightenment, 4, 9, 15, 23, 149 Epistemology, 119, 129–31, 139, 145, 166, 179, 224 Eremitism. See Hermits Erfurt, 217–19, 221 Ernst, elector of Saxony, 217 Ethica (Abelard), 106–7, 133 Ethics, 29, 100, 106–7, 126, 141, 188, 204 Euclid of Alexandria, 161 Eugenius III, Pope, 158 Everard of Breteuil, 64–65, 68 Exegesis, 19, 21, 91, 111–14, 129–30 Faculties. See Departments Ferdinand of Cordoba, 149 Flanders, 150



Index 367

Fleury, 25, 77 France, 47, 59, 62, 71, 149, 154–57, 183, 187, 192, 218–19 Frankfurt, 219 Frederick Barbarossa, Emperor, 156, 159, 180, 192, 198 Freiburg (im Breisgau), 220–21 Fulbert, u ­ ncle of Heloise, 98, 148 Fulbert of Chartres, 41 Gandulphus, 200 Garland, Magister, 79 Gender, 56–57, 63, 70, 103, 137, 149, 152, 165, 201 Geoffrey of Auxerre, 155 Geoffrey of Lèves, 132, 135–36 Geoffrey of Norfolk, 178 Gerald of Salles, 66 Gerald of Wales, 77 Gerard of Cassio, 201 Gerard of Cremona, 160–61, 203–4 Gerard II of Cambrai, 62–63 Gerbert of Aurillac (Reims), 80 Gerhoh of Reichersberg, 149, 156–59, 225 Germany, 45, 49, 59, 149–50, 154–57, 208, 217–18, 221, 225 Ghalib, student of Gerard of Cremona, 161 Gilbert Crispin, 91–92 Gilbert Foliot, 175, 183, 187 Gilbert of Poitiers, 95, 105, 143, 150, 154–57, 171, 176, 187 Gilduin, abbot of St. Victor, 74 Glasgow, 219 Glosses, 78–81, 83, 87, 90, 101, 104–5, 120, 189, 195, 198, 221 Glosses on Porphyry (Abelard), 124 Godfrey of St. Victor, 15 Goswin of Anchin, 146, 170 Goswin of Mainz, 53–54 Gottschalk von Seelau, 155 Grammar, 6, 20, 30–31, 36–37, 46, 49, 78–80, 86, 92, 186, 204, 220 Gramsci, Antonio, 7 Gratian, 141, 176, 194, 198 ­Great Schism (1378–1417), 217–18, 221 Greece, 150–1 Greek philosophy, 9, 19, 22, 113, 125–26, 150, 159, 162, 199 Gregory I the ­Great, Pope, 31

Gregory VII, Pope, 12, 15, 24, 36, 50, 57–59, 62–64, 88, 223 Gregory IX, Pope, 217 Grenoble, 220 Gribaldi de Moffa, 220 Guala Bichieri, 210 Guibert of Nogent, 30–33, 46–47, 63–64 Guido, Magister, 77 Guilds, 56–58, 206–7 Gundisalvo. See Domingo Gundisalvo Guy of Bazoches, 148 Halberstadt, 154 Hardewin, Magister, 143, 154 Hartmann von Aue, 103 Haskins, Charles Homer, 5–6, 172–74 Heidelberg, 218 Heiric, student of Helias Scotigena, 26 Helias Scotigena, 26 Heloise, 96–103, 116, 124, 126, 148, 165, 177 Henry II, king of E ­ ngland, 149, 158 Henry III, Emperor, 45 Henry IV, Emperor, 57, 61 Herbert of Orléans, 56 Heresy, 50, 61–62, 88, 97, 132, 138, 171, 192 Heribrand of Liège, 171, 176 Herman, student of Abelard, 154 Herman “the Lame” of Reichenau, 20 Hermits, 8, 23, 56–57, 63–70, 72, 75, 99, 102–3, 117–18, 123–31, 224 Herveus Natalis (Brito), 213 Hilary of Poitiers, 171 Hildebert of Lavardin, 75–77, 118, 175–76 Hildegar of Chartres, 41 Hildemar of Corbie, 27 Hildesheim, 35, 154 History writing, 27, 77, 141, 145, 156, 177 Holy Land, 150 Honorius III, Pope, 215 Horace, 21, 28, 126, 166, 170 Hrabanus Maurus, 26 Hugo de Porta Ravennate, 198 Hugh Primas, 152–53, 201 Hugh of Amiens, 176 Hugh of Cassio, 201 Hugh of St. Victor, 73–76, 80, 91, 143–44, 154, 157, 166, 177 Hugo Metellus, 131, 183–84 Huguccio of Pisa, 200 Humanism, 5, 7, 172–85, 202

368 Index Iberian Peninsula, 162, 200 Ibn Daūd, Abraham, 161 Ibn Sīnā. See Avicenna Ibn Wafid, Ali, 161 Île-­de-­France, 75, 156, 188 Illich, Ivan, 39 Innocent II, Pope, 100, 157 Innocent III, Pope, 15, 149, 194, 206, 209–10 Irnerius of Bologna, 192, 200 Isaac of Stella (L’Étoile), 168–69, 172 Isidore of Seville, 20, 88 Islamic thought, 9, 142, 160–63 Iso of St. Gall, 34–36 Italy, 20, 45, 48, 59, 154, 159, 187–94, 217, 219–20 Ivo of Chartres, 67–68, 79, 88, 135 Jacques de Vitry, 111, 149, 222 Jerome, 19, 21–22, 88, 113, 116, 125, 175 Jewish thought, 91–93, 122, 160–63 Jocelin de Bohun, 187 Jocelin of Soissons, 79, 91 John, Magister, 83, 106 John Buridan, 4–5 John of Gorze, 108 John of Hauville, 150 John of Salisbury, 35–6, 77, 84, 95, 109–10, 115, 122, 139–46, 149–50, 154–60, 171–99, 204 Johannes Teutonicus, 200 Justinian, Emperor, 191 Koyré, Alexandre, 2, 4 Kraków, 217–19 Lanfranc of Bec, 47–49, 50–51, 77–79 Langton, Stephen, 182 Laon, 62–64, 73, 79, 98, 122 Laurence, student of Hugh of St. Victor, 91 Le Goff, Jacques, 6–10, 15, 17, 222 Leipzig, 217 Leo IX, Pope, 59 Leo XIII, Pope, 5 Le Pallet, 98 L’Étoile, 168 Letters, 24, 27–30, 38, 41, 72, 93, 102–3, 132–34, 174–85, 187, 204 Leuven, 221 Liberal arts, 11–12, 20–24, 46–50, 203–5, 211–12

Liège, 24, 53–4, 171 Lille, 84 Lisbon, 218 Lisoius of Orléans, 46 Liturgy, 21, 34, 165, 182 Logic, 12, 15, 49–53, 60, 63, 65, 77–93, 100–2, 106–9, 115–16, 121–23, 128–34, 140, 152, 174, 179, 189, 199, 201, 205 Lombardy, 192, 219 London, 175, 183 Lotulf the Lombard, 192 Louis VII, king of France, 149 Louis IX, king of France, 217 Love, 25–42, 44, 46, 54, 68–69, 96, 102–3, 109–11, 123–27, 133, 182 Luhmann, Niklas, 37 Luitpold I, archbishop of Mainz, 53 Macrobius, 80, 143, 145, 173, 203 Maier, Anneliese, 4–5, 10 Mainz, 48, 53, 154, 158 Malle, Louis, 7 Manegold of Lautenbach, 71–72, 75, 77–79, 88, 92, 153 Marcella of Rome, 116 Marsilius of Inghen, 5 Martianus Capella, 20, 80, 142 Martin, the ­legal scholar, 201 Martinus Gosia, 187, 198 Marx, Karl, 7 Mauritius the Spainiard (?), 210 Mauss, Marcel, 58 Medicine, 160, 203–4, 208, 218–19 Meister Eckhart, 8–9 Melun, 72, 98, 119 Mendicants, 13, 201, 206 Milan, 48, 61 Modena, 58, 221 Monasticism, 6, 14–15, 21–30, 33–42, 44, 57, 63, 68–69, 99–100, 123–25, 146, 166–71, 177–82 Monastic schools, 22–42 Montecassino, 51, 61 Montier-­la-­Celle, 175 Mont-­Saint-­Michel, 162 ­Music, 21 Naples, 217 Nigel de Longchamps, 152 Norbert of Xanten, 66–67, 100



Index 369

Normandy, 46–47, 150 Notker I the Stammerer (of St. Gall), 34–35, 44 Noyon, 63 Odo of Soissons, 164, 182 Odo of Tournai, 84, 105 Olivi, Peter John, 5 Origen, 113–14, 126 Orléans, 24, 46, 216–20 Otloh of St. Emmeram, 50 Otto I of Bamberg, 72 Otto of Freising, 77, 84, 143, 150, 155, 159, 199 Ovid, 31 Oxford, 206, 209, 215–18 Padua, 216, 218, 220–21 Papacy, 24, 49–50, 57, 59–61, 64, 88, 100, 134, 149, 178, 192, 194, 196, 198, 206–11, 214–15, 218 Papal Reform, 49–50, 57, 59–61 Paraclete convent, 99–102, 136 Paris, 71, 75, 98–101, 115, 118–20, 140–41, 144–57, 189, 195, 203–21; Notre-­Dame Cathedral, 71–75, 98, 147; Saint-­Denis Abbey, 99–102; Sainte-­Geneviève, Paris, 72, 75, 98, 147; schools, 24, 82, 98–101, 115, 118–20, 140–41, 144–45, 150–57; Left/ South Bank, 7, 72, 144; Right/North Bank, 147–48; Seine Islands, 95, 113, 147–48; St.-­Germain-­des-­Prés, 147–48, 210; St. Victor Abbey, 72–78; St. Victor Chapel, 72–73, 119; University, 13, 16, 183, 189, 195, 203–21 Parma, 48 Paul, St., 22, 50, 55, 68, 104, 107, 114, 176 Pavia, 195, 219, 221 Pécs, 217–18 Perugia, 221 Peter Abelard. See Abelard, Peter Peter Comestor, 176 Peter Damian, 50–51, 56, 77, 85, 175 Peter Lombard, 142, 150, 154, 164, 176, 182 Peter Pierleoni (Pope Anacletus II), 137 Peter of Auvergne, 213 Peter of Blois the Elder, 187 Peter of Blois the Younger, 164, 175, 179–84, 187–88 Peter of Celle, 181 Peter of Corbeil, 154

Peter of Poitiers, 182 Peter of Saint-­Martin, 183 Peter of Vienna, 157 Peter, the Apostle, 26, 114 Peter the Chanter, 164, 176 Peter the Venerable, 38, 100, 175 Petrus Helias, 142–43, 176 Philipp II Augustus, king of France, 148–49, 208 Pillius de Medicina, 68, 200 Pisa, 198, 221 Placentinus, 200 Plato, 26, 33, 35, 50, 53, 80, 95, 111, 126–27, 129, 142, 173, 199, 203 Plautus, Titus Maccius, 152 Poetry, 6, 21–22, 30–31, 34, 41, 101, 110, 153, 177, 179, 204 Porphyry, 80–84, 92, 105, 124, 173 Poverty, 18, 72, 75, 125–27, 144, 152 Prague, 158, 217–19 Priscian, 78–80, 86–87, 110, 142 Puiseaux, 74, 119 Pullen, Robert, 143 Pythagoras of Samos, 115–16 Ralph of Laon, 88 Rainald, apologist of the hermits, 67 Raimbert of Lille, 79, 84 Ramihrdus, 61–63 Ratius, student of Gilbert of Poitiers, 150 Ratpert of St. Gall, 34–35 Raymond of Marseille, 199 Raymond VII of Toulouse, 217 Regensburg, 93 Reggio Emilia, 48, 217 Reginald de Monte, 111 Reichenau Abbey, 20 Reims, 78, 135–36, 153–55 Remigius of Reims, 26 Rhe­toric, 21, 48, 51, 60, 80, 98, 174 Rhineland, 58, 165, 219 Richard, ­legal scholar from E ­ ngland, 195 Richard the Bishop, 143 Richard of Ely, 199 Richard of St. Victor, 177 Robert of Arbrissel, 66, 146 Robert of Courson, 210–11 Robert of Melun, 110, 143, 176, 182 Robert of Paris, 77, 79 Robert of Torigny, 77

370 Index Roger II, king of Sicily, 158 Roger of Howden, 155, 208 Roman law, 48, 159, 186–202, 215, 218, 220–21 Roman lit­er­a­ture, 19, 21, 30–31, 37, 80–83, 123 Romanus, student of Romuald, 28 Rome, 31, 59, 100, 149, 157, 219 Romuald of Ravenna, 28 Roscelin of Compiègne, 77, 79, 84, 88, 91, 97–98, 105, 107, 187 Rotiland, relative of Anselm of Besate, 48 Rouen, 47, 59, 150 Rufinus of Bologna, 201 Rupert of Deutz, 15, 157, 167, 171, 201, Sacraments, 61–62, 182 Saint-­Médard Abbey, 99, 170–71 Salamanca, 218, 222 Salerno, 162, 217 Salimbene of Parma, 201 Sallust, 19, 40 Schools. See Cathedral schools; Monastic schools; Universities Scito te ipsum. See Ethica Sens, 97, 100–101, 132–35, 137 Sentence collections, 85, 88, 91, 95, 112, 132 Seven liberal arts. See Liberal arts Sexual desire, 30, 40, 96 Sexual misconduct, 28 Shakespeare, William, 185 Sic et non, 89, 95, 101, 104, 106, 109–15, 133 Sichelm of Reggio, 48 Siena, 217, 221 Signy Abbey, 136 Simon of Poissy, 143 Simon of Tournai, 182 Simplicius, student of Bede, 26 Sindolf of St. Gall, 36 Smaragdus of St. Mihiel, 26 Socrates, 35, 82–83, 85, 89 Soissons, 99, 101, 112, 125–26, 133, 170 Solomon III, bishop of Constance, 35–6 Southern, Richard, 15, 59–60, 79, 87, 144, 148, 153, 174, 177, 187 Spain, 46, 150, 162, 219 St. Andrews, 219 St. Gall, 27, 34–36 St. Gildas, 100–1, 171 Stephen of Blois, king of E ­ ngland, 158

Stephen of Obazine, 69–70 Stephen of Orléans, 46 Stephen of Tournai, 154, 164, 177, 187 Suger of St.-­Denis, 100, 158 Tancred of Bologna, 201 Tegernsee, 41 Tellenbach, Gerd, 58 Theobald II, count of Champagne, 99 Theobald of Canterbury, 158 Theobald of Provins, 64 Theodulf of Orléans, 26 Theologia “Summi Boni,” “Christiana,” and “Scholarium,” 99–101, 105, 107, 121, 125–35, 141, 154 Theology, 13, 15, 73, 77, 85, 88, 91–92, 98–107, 128–35, 143, 164–65, 183, 190, 211, 215, 218–21 Thierry of Chartres, 95, 142–43, 155, 176 Thomas Aquinas, 13, 149, 176, 203 Thomas Becket, 145, 149, 158–59, 182, 187, 215 Toledo, 142, 160–62 Toulouse, 217–20 Tournai, 24, 84 Translation, 80, 160–63 Troyes, 99, 175 Tuotilo of St. Gall, 34–35 Udalbert, 46 Universities, 13, 16–17, 183, 196–98, 203–21 Urban II, Pope, 79, 88 Urban VI, Pope, 218 Utrecht, 35 Vacarius, Roger, 187 Valenciennes, 58, 63 Valladolid, 218 Vercelli, 216 Vicelinus of Oldenburg, 155 Victor II, Pope, 59 Victorines, 177 Victorinus, Gaius Marius, 80 Vienna, 157, 217–18 Vilgard of Ravenna, 20–21 Vincentius Hispanus, 200–201 Virgil, 19, 21, 37 Vitalis of Blois, 152 Vitalis of Savigny, 66 Vocalism, 83–84, 106



Index 371

Walcher of Liège, 53–54 Walter of Mortagne, 131–32, 177, 225 Weber, Max, 124, 190 Wibald of Stablo and Corvey, 158–59 William of Champeaux, 71–76, 79, 85, 87–91, 95–98, 104, 118–20, 142, 146, 154, 162, 176, 210, 224 William of Conches, 95, 115, 135, 142–44, 160, 166, 176, 187 William of Malmesbury, 168

William of Moerbeke, 204 William Saint-­Th ierry, 106, 132–37, 157, 225 William of Soissons, 115 William of Tyre, 77, 150, 154 Williram of Ebersberg, 50, 53 Wolfhelm of Brauweiler, 50, 88 Wolzo, Magister, 41 ­Women, 56–57, 63, 70, 103, 149, 165 Worms, 72

ACKNOWL ­E DGMENTS

The topics of this book have received much attention in my seminars and lectures in recent years. First, I would first like to thank my Göttingen students for their interest, input, and many discussions. Much is owed too to intensive exchange with my doctoral students, to whom this book is dedicated: Katharina Behrens, Jan-­Hendryk de Boer, Marcel Bubert, Sebastian Dümling, Katharina Ulrike Mersch, Jana Madlen Schütte, and Ingo Truter. For years, I worked closely with the members of our gradu­ate program “Expert Cultures from the Twelfth to the Eigh­teenth Centuries,” and during that time I gained much from the productive discussion and work environment enabled by the generous support of the German Research Foundation (DFG). I ­w ill mention only a few names h ­ ere representing the entire program: Hartmut Bleumer, Udo Friedrich, Marian Füssel, Hedwig Röckelein, and Eva Schumann. Among the gradu­ates and coordinators of the program, standing in for the rest, I w ­ ill mention Pia Claudia Doering, Nina Elsemann, Leonie Exarchos, Katharina Flechsig, Philip Knäble, Antje Kuhle, Matthias Roick, Teresa Schröder-­Stapper, Maximilian Schuh, Inga Schürmann, and Gion Wallmeyer. Many colleagues have shown special interest in my work and provided me with assistance of vari­ous kinds. My former mentor, Michael Borgolte, to whom I also dedicate this book, has always been a sounding board for my ideas and drafts. Ruedi Imbach opened my eyes to many t­ hings while we worked in close proximity during a key phase of writing. Ernst Tremp allowed me access to his MGH edition of the Casus sancti Galli before it went to press, Klaus Naß did the same for the Codex Udalrici, and Matthias Witzleb provided me with his unpublished dissertation on Peter of Celle. Alexander Germann offered me philological advice while Claudia Märtl und Wolfgang Huschner kindly answered my questions. Many other colleagues have shown interest in my work at lectures and conferences. To name a few: Wolfdieter Haas, Uwe Israel, Martin Kintzinger, Catherine König-­Pralong,

374

Acknowl­edgments

Jonathan Lyon, Johannes Paulmann, Walter Pohl, Sally Poor, Benjamin Scheller, Willibald Steinmetz, Masaki Taguchi, Karl Ubl, and Dorothea Weltecke. At the very beginning and end of this proj­ect, I benefited from the hospitality of two wonderful institutions. The Institute for Advanced Study in Berlin supported me during the research phase in 2008–9, and the Institute for Advanced Study in Prince­ton hosted me for a crucial period of writing in 2016–17. I am deeply grateful to both institutions for giving me opportunity for contemplation, serious work, collaboration, and passionate debate. From my time in Berlin, I thank above all Dipesh Chakrabarty, Roger Chickering, Luca Giuliani, Dieter Grimm, Christoph König, Cindy Moss, Reinhart Meyer-­Kalkus, and Catherine Robson. At Prince­ton, Patrick and Mary Geary offered me boundless hospitality and help. I had fruitful discussions ­t here with Muriel Arruebo-­Debie, Antoine Borrut, Glen Bowersock, Jennifer Davis, Robert Goulding, Susanne Hakenbeck, Christopher Jones, Rebecca Maloy, Klaus Oschema, Heinrich von Staden, Columba Stewart, and Helmut Zander. For their friendship, I thank Roberto Tottoli, Francesca Bellino, Maia Gabily, Thomas Dodman, Juliette Fradin, Antoine Borrut, Yu-­chih-­Lai, Claire Gilbert, Fabien Montcher, Céline Bessière, Pascal Marichalar, Giuliano Mori, Andrea Guidi, Elisabeth Kaske, Reuben Miller, Janice Williams Miller, and Fadi Badarwil. ­These institutes in Berlin and New Jersey would not be as ­great as they are ­were it not for the dedication of their helpful and hospitable research staffs. In Berlin, I mention Gesine Bottomley, Nina Kitsos, Vera Pfeffer, Daniela Wendlandt, and Katharina Wiedemann. In Prince­ton, I thank Jennifer Hansen, Herman Joachim, Marcia Tucker, Kirstie Venanzi, and Marian Zelazny. For research assistance, I thank the staff of the Göttingen State and University Library and the Firestone Library at Prince­ton University. For helping me procure lit­er­a­ture, other materials, and proofreading, I thank Luisa Deppe, Doris Gobrecht, Marie Kemper, Daniel Richter, and Elsabeh Sonderhoff. Parts of the book ­were read and commented on by Jan-­Hendryk de Boer, Marcel Bubert, Matthias Büttner, Sebastian Dümling, Veit Groß, and Katrin Pietzner. The indexing was done by Alexander Goller and Daniel Richter. For their excellent editorial support, I thank Kirstin de Boer, Gisela Muhn-­Sorge, and Angelika von der Lahr. Thanks to support from the Gerda Henkel Foundation, the German version of this book was included in its Historische Bibliothek collection. At C. H. Beck Publishers, I would like to thank Mr. Ulrich Nolte for his friendly



Acknowl­edgments 375

collaboration. The Geisteswissenschaften International program, which is jointly maintained by the Fritz Thyssen Foundation, VG-­Wort, and the Börsenverein des deutschen Buchhandels, made it pos­si­ble to publish the En­ glish translation. The “Lesezeit” program of the Fritz Thyssen Foundation made it much easier for me to keep up with the most recent research literature on the topics of this book during the summer term of 2022. Thanks are owed to Ruth Mazo Karras and Jerome Singerman of the University of Pennsylvania Press for including this version in its ­Middle Ages Series. I am particularly grateful to John Burden for undertaking the task of translating the text into En­glish and to Matthias Büttner for his inexhaustible willingness to discuss m ­ atters of language and style with John and me. Katrin and Willibald kept me on course. This book would never have been successfully concluded had they not pushed me to maintain a healthy balance between it and the more impor­tant proj­ect of ­family.